The Vast Marvel
by PippinStrange
Summary: A collection of Marvel one-shots, drabbles, scenes, dialogues, excerpts. Will include the Avengers, Spider-Man, Daredevil and the Defenders, Deadpool, X-Men, and plenty more if you like what you read here. Individual stories will be rated, but general ratings will be T for language and violence. "For me, the vast marvel is to be alive." - Al Purdy
1. The Line Continues

Written in 2014 after I saw Captain America: Winter Soldier. There may be some technical or spelling errors, I pulled it from my old blog directly.

* * *

...

 _"For me, the vast marvel is to be alive. For man, or for flowers or beast or bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly and perfectly alive."_

-Al Purdy

...

* * *

 **The Line Continues**

 ** _Bucky Barnes_**

* * *

...

Hydra does not have the luxury of mirrors. Maybe the mask wasn't to keep others from recognizing me as much as it was to keep me from recognizing myself.

I hadn't seen my own face before. At least, not that I could remember.

At first, I only used the name, and an encyclopedia. I hadn't used computers, really, anything complicated was done for me and I was handed the intel in order to do the killing part. I was given names, places, times, and a fully loaded gun, like handing a starving dog tiny pieces of meat through bars until it's a monster.

When it came to tracking the museum down, I wasn't sure when to start. I wasn't sure how many times they had erased my mind, only I remembered the waking up from it, and could guess that it was a regularly scheduled thing. Muscle memory made me dread it, even if they assured me it was the first time they erased anything.

It wiped away memories, and people, and stripped away forms of conscience and any morality that could have been instilled in me when I was a kid. I'm assuming I was probably a kid once. Maybe with friends. Maybe even friends with the clean cut, annoyingly hard-to-kill Steve Rogers. I think I might have known him once.

I was functioning on minimal operation, and the only thing I had was a name: Bucky Barnes. A name that he called me but I did not recognize. Without my handlers to tell me when, where, aim, fire, the only thing I could comprehend was… an encyclopedia.

I stole a jacket to cover the arm. I ripped a hat right off someone else's head and put it on my own. Their protests died on their lips when they looked at me. I am so used to being feared that it made no difference to me.

I went to a library. I asked where the encyclopedias were. The librarian gave me a look of such confusion that I almost pitied her.

"No one really uses encyclopedias anymore, they just use google," she said.

I didn't know what that meant. I said nothing.

"You from around here?" she asked.

"No," I answered statically. There was no way of telling if I looked homeless enough to be suspicious or if the winter soldier had become most wanted yet.

"Okay…" she said awkwardly, pointing me in the direction of the books. She left fairly quickly without offering any more assistance, which was preferable. I opened book B and flipped to the index. This felt strange. Maybe I had read a lot of books before. Whenever I seemed to wake up out of some sort of procedure, I had lost all memory of interaction and past but not knowledge. I still knew the capital of Germany or how to read. But this felt familiar. Maybe I once went to school.

Barnes, James Buchanan.

That was it. That was the name. He had called me "Bucky", though, and that didn't make any sense. I flipped to the corresponding page, and my eyes sort of glossed over the lack of information.

"Barnes, James Buchanan, known as "Bucky", born 1925, was a private in the US army during WWII and known for his association with Captain America, the first Avenger, who fought against Hydra terrorist leader, Red Skull. See also: Captain America". I glanced at the date. This encyclopedia was made in 1986. According to the newspaper stand I passed, it was 2014.

I scanned the beginning and the end of the article, not willing to stay in one place for so long in order to read the whole thing. Hydra might think that I perished in the freight, but there is no telling if they'll search for me when they haven't found a body. I need to keep moving.

The article about Captain America was less informative than the first. It merely described us as "best friends" and that I was killed in action.

"Fun fact" read a small box in the corner, next to a picture of Steve Rogers, "You can see authentic Captain America uniforms and memorabilia at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C."

So, I went to the museum. I asked a few people where to find, with a grimace, the "Captain America Display" and several people confusedly pointed the way. The Smithsonian, as it turns out, is extremely large, and full of people looking at you twice.

The museum designed a walk-through exhibit. There was a history of Steve Rogers where kids could measure their height. That seemed familiar. There was a raised platform with a bunch of dirty war costumes on dummies. There was some sort of projector showing old war films against the wall.

None of it was striking in any way. Dead end.

All I had was a name, and someplace to look, and now I felt lost. I had been a slave for long enough that I was beginning to feel hungry and tired but wouldn't give any indication or look for something to eat.

I suddenly got it into my head that I wanted water. I was a runaway, after all. River water doesn't really satisfy, and I didn't really drink any, anyway. I was too busy trying to drag the Captain's ass back on shore. He's heavier than he looks. I only rescued him because he rescued me. I owed him. Just once. The thought did occur to me that he knew who I was and how to make it all come back, and that leaving him alive would be the smartest tactical choice. So I did.

I had to pretend that he, refusing to fight me and calling me his friend, had nothing to do with wanting him alive at all.

I found a bathroom. I walked in and uncomfortably waited till it was unoccupied. Then I bent over the sink and splashed water in my face, and then drank from the fountain at the far end. Then, I looked into the mirror.

A face stared back. It was dirty and hollow looking. I tried to push my long hair farther under the hat, but there was no improving… except for the fact that I knew what I looked like now. That could only be a good thing.

Stepping back out into the museum was like coming out of a memory-wipe. Now that I knew what my face looked like, I saw it EVERYWHERE. I was on posters. In the black and white, static footage of WWII. I was pictured beyond life-size next to Captain America.

There was a whole walk-through board based on me and me alone. I went to one of the displays, and stared up at a younger version of myself, looking heroically off into the distance. I was wearing an army uniform, and it said I was a great soldier. No surprise there.

Though, it did not refer to me as an associate of Captain America. It referred to me as his best friend. It described Steve as being devastated when I died. My death, it seemed, came from falling from a great height and perishing on the mountain below.

In the photographs, I still had both arms.

I looked down at my metal arm, bewildered. So I hadn't died from the fall, but I lost an arm. One more puzzle piece sliding into place.

"I thought you might be here," said a voice.

I flinched and turned my head instinctively, moving as robotically as my arm. At this point I didn't know if I wanted to run away from Hydra or if I hoped it was Hydra. You know what they say about dogs going back to their masters.

It was Steve.

"So you didn't drown," I answered in a monotone.

"I didn't. Thanks to you."

I ignored that. It might hurt patriot boy to know that it was a tactical move.

"That's you," Steve pointed up at the board.

I said nothing. I may not have been wearing one, but I was still used to the mask. Or the muzzle.

"Let's get some food," Steve said.

"…What?" I asked.

"Food… for eating. Come on." Steve motioned me towards a small crowd of people waiting by a counter at the far end of the building, where colorful advertisements had pictures of sandwiches and milkshakes, supposedly in the 1940s style. It looked sort of familiar. The tiny court was specifically designed to accompany the display.

I was trained to ignore hunger. And all signs of friendliness.

Steve noticed my hesitation. "No one is going to drag you back to Hydra. The government isn't dragging us to jail, either." He tapped a small badge pinned to his lapel. It was labeled STARK INDUSTRIES. "We're not on the run any more."

"Maybe you're not," I corrected. "I'm certain most of SHIELD still wants to put a bullet through my head."

Steve shrugged, and kept walking. I paused. I didn't have any sort of clarifying future before me, only a glossed-over history on a billboard and a muddy past that didn't feel like my own. There was no way of knowing what to do. When they erased my memories, they erased my conscience. Morals are not retained by being taught, but molded by the experience of having them. That is why it was so easy to know that killing was wrong, but killing anyway, by the hundreds and thousands, simply because I was told to do it.

I had never been given a choice between right and wrong before. But, at this point, it felt wrong to go back to being a ghost. Maybe it was because I had done it before, but it felt right to follow him.

Steve maneuvered around the crowd towards the mock diner. "There's the end of the line," he said off handedly, not meaning anything by it, but it made something like a cold wind rush through me.

He stood in line and the family in front of him slowly turned and looked at him. The children started to jump up and down, put he put a finger to his lips, and they quieted down. The parents apologetically asked him if he would sign their Washington D.C. guide maps. The kids were ecstatic, and Steve shook their hands, then the hands of their parents. Their faces glowed, and tried not to alert the people around them that Captain America himself was getting food like an ordinary human being.

It was… heartwarming.

"The end of the line" sounded like something I had heard before.

Something important, and if I didn't go through with what I debated, I'd regret it. There was no better option, this was the right one.

I followed him.

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **If you enjoyed this, please drop a review and let me know what you think! I found this drabble on my old blog and had no idea it existed anymore.**


	2. You Take Center Next Time

...

 _"For me, the vast marvel is to be alive. For man, or for flowers or beast or bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly and perfectly alive."_

-Al Purdy

...

* * *

 **You Take Center Next Time**

 ** _Hawkeye_**

* * *

...

The inexperienced always hold their breath when they shoot. I can, no pun intended, spot a beginner from a mile away. The important thing is to breathe. Aim. Calculate for the distance and wind. To be as proficient as I, one must be able to do a semi-complicated algebra or a physics problem in their head with multiple variables. I am an archer, made out of math and wind and some sort of aviary blood.

"Call it," I said.

Natasha pursed her lips, waiting. "West. To the left of the generator."

A glimmer of white among the metal. A uniform. While most would aim for the body, I aim for a button. A collarbone scar. A mustard stain on a lapel.

Breath, wind, loose, dead.

"Second- on the room. Third stack from the right."

"Also dead," I said, out loud.

"It's a pity they're so understaffed, it wouldn't be as easy to get in," she replied flippantly. "I like to be challenged once in a while."

I slid the bow over my shoulder. "I don't mind having it easy, either. It's almost like a vacation."

We simultaneously jerked at the cables to test the knots, then leapt over the side of the roof, sliding down the side until we reached the ground. I removed my harness and let it dangle. "Perimeter, or center?"

"I took the center last time," she said lightly. "My jaw is still sore. That was my personal record."

"How many hits?"

"He landed six before I broke his neck." She stretched and cracked her knuckles. "It's your turn for the combat."

"I never thought I'd hear you opt out to beat the shit out of someone."

"I'm taking a cue from someone I know," she flipped her hair as she walked towards the edge of the compound. "I'm pretending I'm on vacation."

I smiled at her. Of course in my book, a smile is a grim nod of camaraderie before going into battle.

The gate was easy to scale. It was an older, industrial mill, all chain-link fence and suspension and machines, like a car engine wearing all it's parts on the outside. My feet made slight metallic notes against the walkways. I had an arrow notched and ready, stepping at a slight angle to get better peripheral vision.

I moved from outdoors into the hallways, made of rumbling tubes and moving parts on the right and a railing on the left. I looked over the railing… it was a long fall to working machines below. The yellow caution sign looked idiotic. There was no caution here. It was either walk straight through, or die.

Out of nowhere- a shadow. I whirled, fired, and a white blade slashed into the red and black darkness, cutting the arrow from it's mark. They were too close to shoot again. I whipped my bow to the side, blocking their sword from cutting me in two.

I hate ninjas. Guns I can handle. Two long-distance weapons are a matter of skill. Swords need more defensive maneuvers.

Left, right, left- the blade arced from side to side, too insanely fast to hardly comprehend. Only instinct and training knocked me under, over, and out of the way, bending and dodging and staying out of reach. The shadows converged into the shape of a human, wearing some sort of red uniform and mask, a mask that looked more like a cloak and hood reminiscent of the KKK. Dumb ass.

My bow and their blade came together, clattering and screeching, unlike those ridiculous old movies with well-placed sparks during the duel.

A small knife flew from his hand so fast, I didn't have time to dodge. I managed to slide slightly to the right, and the knife blade skimmed the side of my head, cutting a surface wound through my hair and letting loose a trickle of blood right into my eye. Squinting, half my vision obscured and ignoring the warmth against my scalp. I dropped to my knees, rolled, and knocked my assailant over. In that instant, both of our weapons had been forced from our hands. I threw myself over him, throwing a punch once, and then twice- not in the head, in the throat. It was me, or him, and this wasn't a bar fight. You aim for whatever will make them stop breathing faster.

Somehow I felt his knee drive up into my stomach. Falling off the side, I managed to get my bearings just as he threw an unreasonably high kick in my stomach, which knocked me back against the weak, chain-link railing. The yellow caution sign dangled and swung. One more kick would have put me over the edge to me death below.

Natasha swung from the catwalk above, dropping directly on top of the blood-red ninja, gripping his neck with her thighs and pulling him down to the ground. She flipped upwards, landing lithely on her feet, a handgun slipping out of her sleeve and into her hand.

A sharp BANG! sounded, and the red ninja's head slammed backwards with such force that the insides of his head dripped into the machines below.

A siren began to blare, and the machines cranked to a stop.

"A little overwhelmed this time, Barton?" She gave me a hand up.

I put a hand to my head and winced. "You insisted on taking perimeter."

"Yeah, well, I'll take center from now on. It's not your forte."

"I didn't know we were going to be dealing with Hydra that fought like Mr. Miyagi."

She grasped my chin and forced it to the left to get a better look at the knife wound. "I guess this means an actual vacation for you."

"Stitches don't count," I said. I would never admit that I felt out of it. "Let's get out of here."

"Oh, yeah," she said lazily, as if she had forgotten, "Those charges are due to blow… in… five."

"Let's survive our own bombing, so then I can thank you for saving my ass again," I said, grasping her by the elbow, partly to lead her out of the interior and partly to lean on her should I pass out. She pulled a small, gauzy cloth out of one of the pouches on her belt, handing it to me. I mashed it against the knife wound and grimaced.

The night was waning when we got out of the compound. We cleared the mile-marker at a jog when the first explosive went off. Natasha pulled out her radio and reported success, and then had the audacity to report myself as "wounded and needing immediate attention". She enjoyed the look on my face, a cross between my dead-like "resting face" and a look that said I would get my revenge on her eventually.

"You know Fury will have words for you when he realizes I'm NOT in critical condition," I scolded her.

"Just like Budapest."

"For the second time, I have absolutely NO recollection of that mission being anything like this. How does EVERYTHING remind you of Budapest?"

She shrugged and gave me a sarcastic smile. "Anytime I win. It reminds me of Budapest."

"Last time you said it, we were cornered by aliens."

"Oh, that was just because of all the rubble. We made a mess."

"Is that why the Russian government is trying to press a defacing of public property charge against Shield?"

In the distance, we could hear the distinct rumble of an approaching helicopter. Our ride back home.

"Maybe," she replied. "I don't deal with the paperwork."

"If we're lucky, some of the paperwork survived Hydra," I reminded her.

"I doubt it."

There was a silence.

"Did you read it?" she asked.

"Read what?"

"My files. On the public drive."

"You mean your whole… uh, background and papers and life story…"

"Yeah."

"No," I said simply. "I wouldn't do that unless you wanted me to. I never get on the internet anyway. Computing damages eyesight."

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **If you enjoyed this, please drop a review and let me know what you think! This was yet another "find" on my good ol' blog.**


	3. Detail

Takes place between the end of Defenders season 1 and Daredevil season 3. Tag drabble.

* * *

...

 _"For me, the vast marvel is to be alive. For man, or for flowers or beast or bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly and perfectly alive."_

-Al Purdy

...

* * *

 **Detail**

 ** _Jessica Jones_**

* * *

...

I twist the string of the hoodie beneath my leather jacket restlessly.

Same time, same place. When it's dark and the city block comes to life in devil red and hazardous, neon yellow lights above doors. Music pounds deeply behind walls.

The Puerto Rican woman, Daphne, has had her highlights recently done, wearing a pair of buckle bunny jeans with sparkles on the ass. Her hoop earrings are large enough for circus animals.

She is missing a wedding ring, but the tan line remains.

I lift the camera to my eye as she walks up to the tavern. _Click._

She opens the door and goes inside, without hesitation, walks up to a table where a man is already waiting. _Click._

They embrace, kiss.

 _Click, click._

I pull the camera down, check it, lift it again, looking past the tavern door at someone approaching on the sidewalk.

No way.

No fucking way.

I slip out from behind the hedge and walk purposefully right up to the approaching man, who stops dead in his tracks, eyes trailed down at the ground behind red tinted glasses, and a cane paused in-hand.

"What the hell, Matt." I say.

"Excuse me," he responds lightly. Still playing the blind card.

"It's Jessica Jones, shithead," I answer. "Were you planning on telling anyone you were alive?" I glance over him. He looks pained, bruised, and there's cuts and on his face, neck. "Or at least not buried under the rubble of a hundred stories?"

"It was better this way…"

"Oh, screw you."

"What?" he replies calmly. "Never played dead before?"

"I don't pretend to be a martyr," I say. "So what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm going to a laundromat," he says cryptically.

"Oh yeah?" I ask lightly.

"Yeah."

"Where's your laundry?"

He takes a deep breath. "I know there's not a lot of detail that escapes you, but I never intended for you to believe that I was going there to do laundry."

"Oh," I reply sarcastically, "So you're going there to ask for a job. Since the lawyer thing didn't pan out. Right?"

"I'm already working." He shakes his head. "I am working. And it's important. So if you don't mind…"

"Isn't Fisk the one who usually gets you all hot and bothered like this?"

"Fisk is still a problem."

"Why? Is your arch enemy bothering you from behind bars?"

"His corruption remains. It put down roots. Like a fungus."

"I heard he got shanked."

"Doesn't matter. He has to be stopped." He pauses, amends. "Again."

"He can take a number."

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm working. It's called having a job." I gesture to the street behind me. "How are you even here, anyway? Last I checked, you still didn't clarify the whole building coming down on your head." I pause. "Did CLAIRE patch you up? Have you been living with her this whole time?"

"No… I found help elsewhere."

"Oh, good, well, I'm glad you found some help. Did you at least tell Page and Nelson you were alive?"

I would say that he looks away and avoids eye contact, but that's a little redundant. Even if he can't see, he reflexively turns his face towards the direction of the street.

"Shit," I mutter. "You haven't told them."

He doesn't answer.

"You have to tell them."

He shakes his head.

I jab my finger into his collarbone, and he winces. "You fucking tell them," I say, "Or I will."

He lifts his chin at me, his voice dangerously low. "Don't."

I lift my camera up to his face.

 _Click._

"Don't make me break your camera," he warns quietly.

"Tell your friends that you're alive," I threaten, "Or I send this picture to little miss pencil skirt." I turn and start to walk away, anger boiling in my chest.

"Jessica," he begins.

"No, you know what, screw you," I whirl back. "You know what this is? Pathetic. You let a building fall on you and you get to be the dead hero and there's nothing left but that - that sick admiration and grief. Danny told us what you said. _Take care of my city?_ REALLY? What a load of bullshit."

"I meant it. I didn't know I would… live. I thought I was dead. I was out for a long time."

"Would have been nice to send a text. An email. I have a fucking landline, for Chrissakes. Anything to bring you off that goddamn pedestal you fashioned for yourself. Fallen hero my ass. You're a douche-bag."

He doesn't disagree.

"And the worst part of it is, is that you believe it, too," I snap. "I hate guys with low-self-esteem."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

I sigh tiredly. "Fuck you, Matt Murdock. You're not my goddamn friend." I turn to walk away again, but I pause and look over my shoulder. "For what it's worth, which is likely very little for you, I'm glad you're alive."

He considers the cane in his hand, and for a beat, seems to be questioning where to go. I know that he knows exactly where to go, but he sells it.

"It was good to see you again, Jess," he sighs.

"What? Did the falling building give you your eyesight back?"

There is a small, ghost of a smile glimmering at the edge of his mouth, but he puts it away. "It's nice to run into you again. You know what I mean."

I roll my eyes, and regret my next sentence even as I say it. "Just… let me know if you need… back up or something. I'll be there."

"Won't need it. I can do this on my own."

"That's what I was afraid you'd say." I point at him, even if I'm not certain he can sense the gesture or not. "Tell Page and Nelson."

"I'll handle it."

Daphne comes out of the tavern, sans lover. She looks worried and sneaky, like her date got cut short. Maybe my client texted her and told her he'd be home early, and now she's panicking.

"Hey, listen," I say. "This blind guy needs directions to 48 and 11th but I don't know where that is. Can you help him out?"

Daphne sees Matt standing there looking confused by my words, and rushes to his side and touches his arm. "Hello," she says way too loudly. "I'm happy to help you! Now what you're going to do is come STRAIGHT down this sidewalk here, and you're going to want to turn LEFT…"

I see Matt shaking his head over Daphne's shoulder. He knows he deserves way more than an eagerly helpful woman who can turn 5 minute directions into twenty minutes of chatter. Like a good punch in the face, which I'd be happy to deliver. Name a time and place.

"Good luck," I say dryly, pulling my hood over my head and tucking my hands in my pockets. Matt stands helplessly trapped by Daphne's good samaritan lecture on where to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk and the heaviest traffic. There's a drain to be avoided at the crosswalk, and there's a small gravel lot where sometimes the pebbles get onto the sidewalk, he might trip on those. He should take great care that people usually run the red light turning right, just because it's a one way, but they don't yield to the oncoming traffic coming from the western waterfront.

The devil is in the details.

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **Author's Note**

 **I'm totally watching out of order on the Netflix series. I watched all three seasons of Daredevil, and then season 1 of Jessica Jones. Now I'm onto Luke Cage. I know I did it all wrong but I'm trying to go back and watch all the origins so that my brother and I can then binge the Defenders and season 2 of the Punisher. If some of this feels off, it's because I haven't actually seen the Defenders yet, I'm only using what I know from the recap at the beginning of Daredevil season 3, haha.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **Love,**

 **Pip**


	4. Boys in Red

Warning: Adult language/adult jokes about bodily functions from Deadpool. Rated R, or T+

I posted this earlier on this website in both Spider-Man and Deadpool categories. Please feel free to note I came up with these censorship jokes with the beeping before "Once Upon a Deadpool" came out, lol. I'm very proud of that

* * *

...

* * *

 **Boys in Red**

 ** _Peter Parker meets Deadpool_**

* * *

...

I am no stranger to weird things. You kind of grow accustomed to it when a radioactive spider-bite gives you superhuman abilities, and you start running around New York City in spandex trying to save the world.

But that doesn't mean I'm not constantly surprised.

Tony Stark in my living room flirting with my aunt? Check.

Meeting Captain America and then stealing his shield? Check.

Finding out my homecoming date's dad is a war mongering weapons dealer? Check.

Getting a new suit and then immediately turning it down? Check…

So running into another masked hero is surprising. Only because I thought I knew, for the most part, who was in my neighborhood.

But today, there's a man dressed in a red and black, skintight hero suit with double edged swords crossed over his back. Much like my mask, he has small white lenses in triangles of black.

He's sitting on the edge of my designated look-out space, dangling his legs and swinging them happily. He's drinking a beer from a bottle in a brown paper bag, hiding the label, with an obscenely long straw shoved in the neck of his mask so that he can still drink with his face entirely covered. It looks like he's watching the early evening sunset over the city, turning the sides of the skyscrapers into blinding gold and orange stripes.

I walk across the flat roof to the small wall on the edge where the masked guy is slurping and humming a tune. It sort of sounds like Sweet Caroline.

I drop down beside him, swinging my legs over the edge as I do so. "Sup man," I say casually.

The guy snorts and coughs. A small wet pattern appears where his mouth should be. He starts to pull the straw out from under his mask. Oddly enough, this takes far longer than it should. He holds up one finger, indicating I needed to be patient and wait.

The straw must be incredibly long and made for those giant plastic beakers you drink from at a New Years eve party. He keeps pulling it and winding it up like an extension cord until it's finally completely out.

"Hi there," I repeat.

He holds up his finger again, placing the wadded up straw into the brown paper bag, rolling up the top, and then setting it beside him. Then he turns back to me.

"What the fuck are you?" he asks.

"Me? What are you?" I reply, affronted.

"You can't say it, can you?" he intones, and if I could see his face, I figure he'd probably be smiling in a tsk tsk tsk sort of way.

"Say what?" I ask.

"Go on! I say - what the fuck are you - and YOU say - I dunno, who the fuck are you?"

I shake my head. "Uh - no thanks…?"

The guy suddenly looks in the opposite direction, like he's a tired extra in the background of the Office working at a desk. "Typical," he whispers. "Censorship."

"Uh - you're not from around here, are you?" I try politely. "Can I get a name? A codename? Associations? Anything?"

"Sure THING, BRO," he turns back to me, his voice high pitched with sarcasm. "I'm DEADPOOL, I like long walks on the beach and killing people. You?"

I shift back an inch. "Uh… I'm… Sp-sp…"

"Spuh, spuh, spuh," he repeats. "SPUH-IT IT OUT."

"Spiderman," I reply, my voice suddenly going hoarse. "I'm Spiderman."

I can almost hear him blinking rapidly. He winds his hands in a rotating fashion. "AND?" he presses. "Go on."

"I'm - uh - I'm from New York."

His head whips towards the Manhattan skyline, back to me, then back to the skyline, and then back to me. "No," he drawls.

"I mean, uh - I protect - New York."

"Gold star!" Deadpool smacks me in the back way too hard. "Nice to meet you, Spiderman from Manhattan. Goodbye."

He suddenly throws himself off the side of the building.

"HOLY SHIT!" I exclaim.

"Heard that!" I hear him screech in his free-fall.

I follow his movement and let myself drop from the wall, sending one long stream of web up to the wall we just vacated, and then one down to his flailing form - plummeting down a hundred stories towards the unforgiving asphalt below. It catches him squarely around the middle, slowing his fall, and then mine pulls taut, giving me enough oomph to swing him gently up towards the balcony closest to the ground on the second floor.

He lands in the balcony and starts making horrible noises, trying to brush away the webbing around his middle.

I drop onto the balcony beside him. "Uh, you're welcome, I just saved your life."

"IS THIS JIZZ?" He screams.

"God, no," I say quickly.

He continues to squeal in a feminine tone, tugging on it and getting his hands stuck, only making it worse.

"You just fell off a building and you're worried about THAT?" I exclaim.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS IT?"

"It's webbing!" I falter. "You know - like… spider web?"

"WHERE DOES IS COME OUT OF YOU?" Deadpool is still yelling loudly. He looks up and down my body suspiciously.

"Not out of ME - from my - wrist braces."

"Oh, thank god. I thought you were marking me."

"Uh, no," I repeat.

When he doesn't make another snarky response, I try to lean against the wall casually to wait him out, change my mind, and lean on the balcony, crossing my arms over my chest. "So why would a man in a mask like you try to kill himself?" I ask. "And why jump from a building while a hero in a mask is nearby and the odds are that he could probably save you?"

Deadpool stops fussing at the webbing and marches up to my face, getting awkwardly close. "You had no right to keep me from making a hasty exit," he snarls. "You were annoying me, so I left. NOT COOL, DUDE."

"Left?" I repeat. "I thought you were…"

"Depressed?" Deadpool infers. "Ah, well, if we do more of this," he made a chicken beak motion with one hand. "I might get there."

He stops talking, but stays about a centimeter away from my face.

I keep waiting for him to back off, and he doesn't.

The more I think about saying _Hey, back off,_ the longer the silence grows.

It's becoming awkward.

I blink slowly, and he's still there. Uhhh…

"You're not going to kiss me, are you?" I squeak. _Good lord, Peter. Not cool. Don't be a loser! You could probably kick this guy's ass!_

"Did you WANT me to kiss you?" Deadpool asks.

"NO!" I squawk.

"Fine," he says shortly, backing off and walking to the other side of the balcony. He removes one of his swords from his back, and uses it to swipe through the webbing. It surprisingly goes right through.

"Hey," I exclaim. "Is that - is that vibranium? I've never known it to get cut, really, mostly it just dissolves…" I trail off with uncertainty.

"If I give you a cookie, will you stop?" he asks, sawing away at the next strand.

"Do you have cookies?" I respond back sarcastically. "Don't break my heart."

He pauses in his motions and looks up at me, and I could have sworn his white eyes in the mask contracted in some sort of approval for my snark. "It's adamantium," he finally grumbles, looking back down and slicing the last one.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" I ask.

"Now I owe them .25 cents," Deadpool whispers over his shoulder, and then replaces the sword on his back and looks back at me. "So - can I complete my exit, here, or are you going to do that uh - that thing - with the thing - again?" He rolls his shoulders like he's supremely grossed out. "I hope he says no," he whispers, again, to his opposite side, like he has an imaginary friend he talks to constantly.

"You can leave, I guess," I sigh. "I won't try and stop you."

"Somehow people always say those words to me. Usually women, though," Deadpool places his hands on the railing, ready to launch himself over the side.

"But," I exclaim, before he quite gets the momentum to do so.

"GOD, COME ON," he barks, banging his head once on the railing in frustration. "THE DIALOGUE FOR THE SAKE OF CHARACTER EXPOSITION IS DRIVING MY NUTS UP THE WALL. For the record, the wall ain't soft, and I chaff easily."

"It's just," I say quickly, "If I let you fall of this balcony right now - you won't - hurt yourself, right? Because you're like me. With powers. Right?"

"So the part where I jumped off a skyscraper," he turns around and mimes the action with his hands, making two fingers walk like legs off his arm. "That wasn't really a giveaway?"

"No, not really. I didn't expect it at all. I've just - never met - someone similar to me," I say quickly. "Not in New York."

"There's plenty of heroes in New York," Deadpool argues. "Don't you team up with them once in awhile? You know. Fighting aliens and rocks and shit?" He put his gloved palm over his mask where his mouth should be to muffle the next few words. "If I say it, we have to pay trademark fees."

"No!" I repeat loudly. "People - like - US!"

"What, the skin-tight red suit and fighting bad guys in the city?" Deadpool sighs and groans simultaneously in a long, teenager-like whine. "Trivia. Ready? Okay. Spiderman. Deadpool. Daredevil. Scarlet Spider. Red Hulk. Dynamo. Red Raven. The Flash. For the record, not the fastest man alive. I think by season three, he's probably the fourth or the fifth. For those of you playing at home - YES, I just went there."

"I don't know any of those people," I held up my hands. "I just - I mean - I didn't know if you were an Avenger, or…"

"See! HE can say it! It's okay for HIM to say it!" His head swings the other way and looks, annoyed, at the wall.

"So you aren't allowed to say you're an Avenger? But you are?"

"Not yet," he says in a sing-song voice, creepily, making a strange typing motion with his hands. Then he holds up one finger in the air. "CHA-CHING."

"So you've been approached then?"

"Not yee-eet," he says again, looking back at me. "But then again, I don't know that I will be. There'll be a lot of THIS… a big f-BEEP-and-my-BEEPking when the pBEEEP."

I don't know how, but everything coming out of his mouth is getting bleeped out.

"What the BEEP are you FBEEPKING LOOKING THE BEEP AT?" he grouses.

I tilt my head, confusedly.

"You can't hear me, can you?" he asks sadly.

"Uh… no?"

"So it begins," he whispers ominously.

 _That was a sample of my censorship protocol,_ Karen's voice says in my ear. _Shall I keep it on?_

I tap the side of my head with some annoyance. "Quit it, Karen."

"WHO THE FUCK IS KAREN!" Deadpool exclaims. "Jesus! First the guy DROPS down beside me and is like 'Heyyyy dude' and then drops his slimey shit all over me and now THIS BITCH KAREN is LIKE…"

"Just - just, stop, okay?" I am getting so annoyed at this point I almost wish I hadn't stopped his fall at all, just to see what happened.

No, that's not true. I'd still save him. Curse you, lawful good.

"What do you WANT from me?" Deadpool exclaims dramatically, clasping his hands like he is begging for his life. "I got no monay! I got no jaaawb! I got no…"

"STOP!" I bark. "I want - to - know - if I need to take you out, or let you go, okay? If I can't tell if you're one of us - you know, wearing a MASK, and all - then how do I know you're not some Hydra agent? Or one of Loki's people? Or worse? Marching right back to where you go and hurt people and induce crime syndicates and do bad stuff in my city?"

For a guy that has a mask over his face, he certainly can express himself fairly well. He looks terribly surprised. "Take… me… out?" he says. "Or let me go?"

"Y-Yeah," I cross my arms over my chest, trying to look intimidating. Getting better at this part of the job. "Why the mask? Criminal, or hero?"

"DING DING DING, and he goes for choice D - NONE OF THE ABOOOOOOOVE!" Deadpool screeches unpleasantly. "But I'll answer your questions anyway - ONE - Mask to hide my stunningly good looks, comparable to, but not limited to, that glorious moment in every pizza commercial where the slice lifts away from the pie in slow motion and the cheese stretches for too long and little holes start to rip in it…" He pauses. "Damnit, now I just want pizza."

I open my mouth to speak, and shut it again. …. What?

"TWO, criminal - yes, yes, and yes, except for the part where I am a CRIM-MIN-NAAAAHL," he says this with a French accent.

I don't react. I can't react.

"Hello? Peter? Not ringing any bells?"

 _Peter._

He just said my name.

I barely flinch, but my mind begins to race in a panic and I feel a cold chill run down the back of my spine. How does he know my name?

"Peter Sellers?" he adds. "COME ON. The INSPECTOR?" He pauses, and continues with a bad French accent. "Ze inspectehhh, I 'ave canzelled ze attack oidahs foh ze eveen-ing!"

"Who… who is the inspector?" I ask sheepishly. Not the same Peter. Thank god.

"Jesus! Kids these days SUCK! You don't even know who that is, do you?"

"No," I manage in a small voice. For a moment I thought he was outing me. The relief I felt was making my stomach clench.

"Jesus Henry Christ. What number was I on?"

"Three?"

"THREE - hero. I mean. Sure. Yeah. X-Men. Bald men. It's sort of our thing. You wouldn't understand. Maybe you will, someday, though. Maybe not until after the trilogy though, and eight-movie contract, and petitions to get you more, until you're weeded out for new blood. Happens every decade. Later, Bana, hello, Eddie. Garfield isn't just a fat cat, he is a fat pile of tears."

I throw my hands in the air. "I have no idea what you are saying. I don't know - I don't think you know. I give up… I give up." I tap my ear. "Karen, search all databases known to mankind for any reference to some jerk who calls himself Deadpool."

"Hey, that's Jerk-OFF," corrects Deadpool pleasantly.

"I just need to know what you're HERE, for, is all, okay?" I turn back to him. "It's MY burrough. You are in MY neighborhood, man. Get with the program or get out. Or I'll make you."

Deadpool tilts his head, but not in a questioning way. More like he sizing up which part of my body to stab with one of his swords first.

"You keep casually threatening me like you have no idea what I can do to you," he says smoothly.

"I would say that you keep disregarding my questions almost like YOU have no idea what I can do to YOU," I answer, just as smoothly. My Spiderman quipping has gotten me out of trouble before, or at times, fail me when I need them the most. I can't honestly tell which way this will swing.

"Well," Deadpool shrugs. "Since murdering children is technically illegal…"

"Murdering any age is illegal," I snap.

"I'm going to let you off with a little warning, officer," he says. "I'm just going to walk away - and not brutally maim you for the sheer fucking joy of it. And you're just going to let me because - believe me - if there is any attempting maiming, I will quickly be un-maimed. Just in tinier pieces."

"Huh?" I ask before I can stop myself. My Spider-sense flickers just ever-so-slightly on the back of my neck. He means his threats, but I don't necessarily feel as if I am danger. I think he is quite happy to maim anyone but has no plans to execute the threat today.

"Should I break it down for you in a rap?" he asks. "Isn't that what New Yorkers do?"

"Not… all of them?"

There is an awkward silence. He steps back to the balcony again. "Okay," he says, "Let's try this again." His voice adapts to a slower, musical tone, like he is running guided meditation in a yoga class. "I am placing my hand on the railing." He does so. "Now I am stepping up onto the railing," he follows his own instructions here as well. "I'm about to drop down a single story, land on the sidewalk, and start walking away. Nothing this young, sprightly gentleman can say will goad me into staying… no matter how tempting…" he goes over the side of the balcony, clinging to the balustrades, slowly lowering himself out of my eyeline, still chatting away by himself. "No matter how this unnecessary piece of information I am sliding into this monologue affects the emotional climax by noting that I have difficulties leaving anything unresolved since I am a mercenary by nature, but first and foremost a conversationalist with lack of self control…"

"It shouldn't be this hard," I say flatly.

His knuckles suddenly stiffen. I hear a loud cry of anguish. His fingers re-grip and I hear angry little huffy sounds as he pulls his upper body up once more, just enough for the top of his head to stick up over the edge. He plants one elbow back up top. "That's what she said," he whispers with a satisfied grunt.

"Please leave New York," I say tiredly. "Just… leave."

"The city or the state?" he clarifies. "Cuz - I mean - yeah - I'll leave the city, not because you asked me to - but - I have business. Upstate. So I kinda have to stay in New York. The state. Can you tell me the fastest way to the freeway from here?"

"Are you going to the Avengers facility?" I ask.

"A private high school, actually," he corrects. "The nuns are kinky and the kids are easily convinced to leave."

"Wait, what?" I step forward automatically.

"Jesus, relax. I'm kidding. There's no nuns and I'm supposed to borrow the kids. Seriously. Do you have any sense of humor at all?"

"Usually," I respond, "But my environment for comparison is WAY off today."

"Oh, I get it, this is why we don't crossover," he plants his chin in his palm like a kid admiring the sunshine out of a classroom window. "I steal your spotlight. In your circle, you're the funny one."

"Please leave," I repeat.

"It's okay. I get it. You feel emasculated."

"I said leave."

"Why? Watchya gonna do about it?" He looks way too excited about this.

"Last time I punched something," I reply, "I broke a bus in half. So. Just go."

"What did the bus ever do to you?"

"It talked too much and made dumb jokes."

"I only know of one bus that can do that. Miss Frizzle is going to kill you."

"Who is that?"

"FUCKING HELL. I can't do crossovers. I can't fucking do it. I can't."

Karen's voice suddenly erupts. _Deadpool is a known vigilante who often recruits for the X-Men. He is what is known as a mutant - which is a very top secret, underground term coined to describe an evolved human being with powers they are born with._

"Like an Inhuman?" I ask.

"What the fuck is an Inhuman?" Deadpool admonishes.

 _Not like an Inhuman - it's not alien biology. Gifted - or enhanced, is the street term used by most organizations, mostly just due to their lack of knowledge._

"Dangerous?" I ask.

"Why are you asking ME? You're the one punching the headlights out of the Magic School Bus!"

 _Like any other human,_ Karen deadpans sweetly, _They have a choice between peace, violence, and the gray areas in-between._

"Deadpool," I specify.

"Yes?" he asks. "For crying out fucking loud, what?"

 _Yes,_ Karen also says. _A mercenary. But not working for an evil corporation or agency, if that helps. Just himself._

"Have… a nice night," I finish.

"You mean I came up here just for that?" he sighs, and his hands release the railing.

I hear him drop to the cement below, as I look over the side. I hear the strains, this time, of someone humming a Lil' Wayne tune, fudging up the words and filling in gaps with nonsense that doesn't make any sense. His figure ducks into the nearest alleyway.

He still never really specified what powers he has, and that annoys me. "I probably should have punched him," I say out loud.

"I THOUGHT OF ANOTHER ONE," suddenly Deadpool's head whips around the corner of the alley, and he's holding up his middle finger. "Heroes in skintight red suits."

"Okay," I sigh, with nothing better to do, "Who?"

"Carnage. Ever heard of him?"

"No?"

"Oops. Consider this your foreshadowing, then."

"Uh. Okay." I drop my voice to a whisper. "Karen, make a note of the the name Carnage."

Of course.

The sun finally dips behind the horizon, shrouding the streets in a murky, pollution-heavy darkness. Deadpool is still holding out his middle finger.

"Why are you still flipping me off?" I ask.

Deadpool makes a horrified gasp, pushes his finger down with his other hand, and then watches as his finger rises back up as if it's on it's own accord. He tries to push it back down again, and a third time, gasping louder each time as he does so. "Sorry, I don't know why he's like this," Deadpool apologizes. "He's never like this. I should just take him home." He cups his hand to his chest and turns, disappearing down the alleyway again.

This time, he does not emerge again.

Feeling somehow as if I've wasted my evening, and not entirely sure what just happened - and not even sure if I WANT to know what just happened - I am almost relieved at the sound of sirens some distance away, calling me to time better spent.

Helping. Saving people.

And every so often, using a sense of humor that doesn't require an adult content warning.

…

Fin

…

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **Author's Note**

 **Hope you enjoy my take on Deadpool and Spider-Man in a more humorous fashion. I love writing scenes for them, and while Wade Wilson makes any situation humorous, opportunities for straight-up comedy don't often appear in my current Avengers novel "Avenge the Departed" (which both Deadpool and Spider-Man). This one is so much fun for me! I hope to write more like this.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **Love,**

 **Pip**


	5. Daddy Issues

I had an incredibly vivid dream from the perspective of Peter Parker as he and Aunt May went to an awkward party at one of Tony Stark's mansions. It started out as just a normal sort of thing and then suddenly turned into Dad!Tony and ALL THE FEELS. I didn't even realize I was Peter Parker until we got to the party, haha.

I did very little to edit the actual dream, the dialogue happened in the dream, and I only took a little extra care to describe what everything looks like so that the readers could glimpse just how crazy detailed my dreams are.

Enjoy!

Pip

* * *

...

* * *

 **Daddy Issues**

 ** _Peter Parker goes to a party_**

* * *

...

To set the stage, I'm sitting in the backseat of a fancy town car. We're driving on a freeway around a very wide bend that sits right on the edge of a crescent-shaped bay, and the sun sets over the water and lights up the sky in the colors of mango sherbert. The lights of the city are beginning to glitter in the preliminary shadows of an evening out. The freeway's overhead streetlights are only just beginning to buzz, some of them haven't flickered on yet.

I vaguely notice that Aunt May from Spiderman: Homecoming is sitting next to me, dressed very nicely and holding a covered dish in her hands like it's the last good thing she'll ever hold on this earth.

She's asking me panicked questions, like, what will be there? WHO will be there? How can I NOT embarrass you with all your fancy friends? Do I look okay? How fancy do you think they'll be dressing?

I try to explain - they're not my friends - they're Mr. Stark's friends. And not to worry… "...you look fine, of course. Beautiful. People will be jealous of you. Trust me. Stop worrying."

I can tell in my head this conversation is happening but I can't really hear voices at all.

The sky is beginning to deepen from the oranges to the light lavenders as the car takes an exit off the freeway, goes up a winding road into the hill that provides a sort of natural headboard to the city that makes up it's bed. The hill is where the really fancy neighborhoods are - the mansions and antique homes among curling driveways, gated roads, hidden places behind hedges and fences rising on incredibly steep streets.

We pull up a sharp rise behind a hedge till the driveway levels out to a circle around an exceptionally tall and modern-art sort of fountain, a tall stonehedge type of block with a hole right through it, one stacked on top of one another and the water cascading through.

Our driver opens the doors for us, and then rushes to the front door of the house to open it for us.

From the outside, the house isn't almost quite as fancy as the others, but only because it looks like a single story from this side. The front door is on the ground level, the second story is actually technically the basement. It's built into the side of a cliff and the basement door comes out into a backyard that wouldn't do well for anyone with vertigo or dogs that like jumping fences. The rooftop of the house looks like it's inverted, two slanting eyebrows coming down to an apex over the front door. There are white, slender columns supporting it - completely retro, the type of space-age architecture they started trying out in the fifties and then really enhanced in the seventies.

It's the new East Coast location for Tony Stark when he's not in New York City, to replace the house that got bombarded by the Mandarin.

For some reason, I am DREADING this party, and the bravado I put on for Aunt May is just for Aunt May's confidence, not my own.

We go in and find it exceptionally crowded by various states of people in formal attire, holding champagne glasses and talking in that I'm-So-Rich party hum. Aunt May looks down at her nice, plain floral-patterned dress in dismay. It's a perfectly fine dress with off-the-shoulder sleeves and the same shape as a pencil skirt, it doesn't floof out like a tutu or anything.

Everyone else looks to be in black, white, or red, maybe there's a navy floating around somewhere.

"I look so underdressed," she whispers.

A server comes up to us and offers to take the dish in Aunt May's hands with a very polite, albeit pitying, sort of expression.

"I'll follow you," Aunt May says, rather protective of whatever she cooked. "Show me your kitchen."

The server confusedly beckons and tries to chat lightly, ushering us past the main, largely open room of party goers (still the seventies chic of dark wood floors in a sunken room, but with the inclusion of white fur draped over the furniture and a white chandelier).

The server turns a corner and leads us into a very open, stainless steel kitchen. It looks like the galley of a very fancy cruise ship - and it's HUGE.

"You can leave that right here," says the server kindly.

Aunt May looks down at the covered casserole dish in her hands, then slides it onto the counter. There's nothing else on the counter that wasn't pre-catered. We're the only home-style anything.

"I thought YOU said this was POTLUCK," she hisses at me, looking betrayed.

"He said we could bring something if we wanted," I whispered back, hearing my speaking voice for the first time. It was definitely a boy's voice, a little panicky, and cracked at the wrong times.

 _Oh shit, I think I'm Tom Holland! Shit! Be cool. It's cool. I got this. I'm… Peter Parker. Okay. I got this._

"That's NOT what you said," Aunt May replies. "If you had PHRASED it like that, I would have just brought a bottle of semi-expensive wine and called it good. THIS is embarrassing."

"No one noticed you brought a roast," I reply quietly. "No one looked at us at all."

Aunt May scoffs angrily and walks out of the kitchen.

It's true though - we are underdressed, certainly. I look down and find that I'm wearing dark jeans and a white T-shirt underneath a nice collared shirt - but it's plaid. Not the acceptable black or navy for this type of shirt in this type of party.

I quickly button it up, tug on the sleeves, and try to make it look more presentable before following Aunt May out of the kitchen.

"There he is! There's the young prodigy." Tony Stark bursts into the immediate bubble that I've occupied with three or four other people, holding a glass of whiskey in one hand.

He introduces myself, Peter Parker, and 'the ever beautiful and talented May Parker' (to which she rolls her eyes and sticks out her hand to shake the other hands inclined to her). I shake hands as well. The men, older, are in suits, the women in dresses that look like red carpet ensembles.

"He is one of our brightest interns," Tony Stark is rattling on -

and on -

and on.

About me.

For an uncomfortably long time. He's praising my math and science skills and technological innovativeness. What I study, what I do in school, what I do as an intern for them. Of course at this point he's making things up on the spot - such as testing some of their equipment and showing real promise in their engineering department…

I start to blank out ever so slightly. I try to interrupt. I get bashful and say "Oh, no, no, Mr. Stark, I've never actually studied the… uh…"

And then he goes on and on and on -

"Y'know I never actually considered my work that impressive," I try again.

Nope. He's still tuning me out and talking entirely to the four people he introduced to us, but only pausing for a breath when they have questions about me. I'm standing uncomfortably close but not far enough away for it to be less awkward.

I don't understand what's happening until one of the elderly men replies, "Well, Mr. Parker. I see we will definitely have some competition gaining your fine abilities for our graduate programs. I certainly look forward to your applications when the time comes."

"Uh - yeah, uh… looking… forward… yeah," I bluster through a sort-of-thank-you.

They politely take their leave to move on to another conversation, and Mr. Stark turns to me. "See what I did there?" he rattles off quickly. "I only just had the opportunity to talk you up to the four greatest minds in your field. One - admissions, Massachusetts Institute of Technology. My alma mater. You're welcome. Second, the current CEO of Apple. Yup - that was him. Third, the woman who single-handedly birthed the nanotech movement…"

It takes me a minute to realize that Tony Stark is actually intoxicated. I've never seen him drink before, I realize. It's always been in a professional (cough, secret profession, Avengers related stuff) situation - meeting him for the first time at May's apartment, the airport confrontation, the taxi ride home, the ferry incident, and then when he offered me the new decked-out Iron Spider suit. I mean, he seems like the kind of guy that could knock back a few… if not a dozen, before sounding anything unlike the exact same wise-cracking-fast-talking-Iron-Man.

So if I can tell he's intoxicated - then he must have had a LOT to drink.

I wonder what stressed him out so badly before THIS party that it's not even late and he's already feeling the effects?

"Hey, hey, earth to Parker," Mr. Stark snaps his fingers in my face a few times. "I'm doing you a big solid, here. Putting some feelers out there for your future. Don't make me regret it. Capiche?"

Yup, definitely drunk.

"What about the uh - the other thing?" I whisper, leaning closer to him. "Like… a certain full time position after I graduate… you know… upstate?"

He slams his hand on my shoulder and pushes at it back and forth, like he's REALLY trying to make me understand a valid point. "Just keeping your options OPEN - k, buddy? Big sea. Things to consider." He released my shoulder and takes another slosh. "After all, you said no - you turned me down, remember? How am I to know if you're taking these things seriously? I'm just looking out for you. Like you do. That's what you like to do, right? Looking out for the little guy. Well, you're the guy." He seems to realize he isn't making too much sense. "Let's talk about this later," he suddenly adds, in a stern voice. Like I'm in trouble and he wasn't the one that wouldn't shut up about it.

"Is everything okay?" I ask timidly. "I just…"

"What?" he barks sort of unnecessarily. "What's so important that we must discuss it right now at a party?"

"I don't know…"

"Then it can wait!" He flashes that million-dollar grin and claps my shoulder. "All in good time, Mr. Parker. Catch you in a bit."

But he doesn't - there's no catching, and no bit. The further the party goes on, Aunt May actually looks like she might be okay with it. She's found something to drink, sat in a cluster of deep scarlet armchairs surrounding exotic looking plants against a white, glittering wall. When I try to catch her attention, she smiles and laughs at whomever she's talking to, and doesn't notice me at all. Huh. Okay. Adaptable. As I should be…

But I can't. I feel so out of place, and Mr. Stark's brusqueness felt so off to me - hurtful, even, but I cannot express how annoyed I am with myself for thinking of the phrase… he hurt my feelings. It seems so childish, so beyond sensitive. I can't even pinpoint why my feelings feel hurt, exactly. Was it the way he was talking to me like he was a grumpy old teacher and I was his super-senior in his fifth year of high school?

I try to join a conversation that he is in before I go to Aunt May and beg for her to call the towncar again to take us home. One more try, I think, to have a conversation with my mentor - just a short one - granting me some relief that he's not too drunk or too distracted that I am still his mentee. Or favorite, if I can be honest. I need some sort of confirmation that he is not so bored with Peter Parker that he's trying to sell him off to MIT or Apple or something so that he can get someone else to fill in the Iron Spider suit.

I step into the circle and try to tune into the conversation that's happening. Everyone ignores me and keeps talking about something. I don't even know what, but it has to do with current political state of the world and how the Sokovia accords changed everything, including the freedoms of the people "born enhanced" that were only just beginning to emerge from the shadows after years and years of secretly influencing historic and current events.

I make eye contact with Mr. Stark. "Hey," I start, shakily. "Uh. Hey."

His gaze bores into mine, his eyebrows knotted, like he's trying to send me a mental message. I don't hear it, whatever it is. Then he turns and his expression immediately changes to less-furrowed, asking the woman standing there if she's "considered applying for the science division of Stark Industries because Pepper's looking for a new director in the department".

It's such a clear brush off.

I blink awkwardly for a moment, then turn abruptly and walked back into the open living area with the sunken living room. I walk along the left side till I reach an opening in the dark, wood-paneled section of wall designated to blend in until someone needs to turn the corner into the hall that leads to bathrooms and some sort of indoor gym.

I find the bathroom and walk in. It's too big to be a bathroom for any normal human's house. Not to mention there's more than one stall, like a bathroom in a really fancy hotel or restaurant. This is a house equipped for crowds. I go up to the counter lined with multiple sinks, shiny and clean, and look at the mirror above it, darkly gilded in a heavy gold frame. The bathroom has soft yellow lighting from hanging lamps in copper glass and exposed bulbs along the top, again hearkening back to the hollywood mansions of the fifties. I think I've seen this set in a Hitchcock movie or something.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, zeroing in on my face and touching a hand to my cheek. Yup, I'm definitely Peter Parker. WEIIIIIIRD. Okay. I shake off the funny voice in my head and try to focus on the issue at hand. I'm Peter Parker and I can't eff this up. Why is Peter Parker's - er, my - feelings hurt about this? What's happening? Did he forget a promise or something? Do I feel ignored?

I tug on my shirt sleeves, then press a hand to my chest. Oh my gosh. I am definitely wearing the spider-man suit under my clothes.

Was there a mission tonight that Mr. Stark forgot about? Why am I wearing the suit? Was I prepared for something terrible to go down tonight at the party where Mr. Stark… and all of his guests… and - shit - Aunt May too - are now vulnerable to something about to happen?

The door opens while I'm still standing at the counter.

"Come in here to pout?" asks Mr. Stark, the door swinging shut behind him. He leans on the dark wood wall and crosses his arms.

"I'm not pouting," I reply. My voice sounds… pouty.

"All right, then," Mr. Stark replies, "Looking for attention?"

"No," I protest.

"Teenagers don't run and hide in the bathroom to pout unless they want someone to come after them. I know that much."

"I hide in the bathroom when I want to be alone," I find myself saying brusquely.

 _Oh my god get a grip what are you doing? THIS IS TONY STARK WHOM YOU'VE MET LIKE 5 TIMES. YOU ARE JUST AN INTERN. AND SPIDER MAN. BUT RIGHT NOW YOU'RE JUST AN INTERN._

"Clearly, it's going well for you," Mr. Stark quips. He pulls his glasses from his face and rubs at the lenses with his shirt sleeve, taking a deep breath. "Well - you got me. I'm here. What gives? Something you want to get off your chest?"

"N-no," I say shakily. "There's nothing. It was just… nothing."

"Doesn't sound like nothing," he replaces his glasses. "Now - are we going to keep playing this game or should I get back to my party?"

I bite my lip.

"Spit it out," Mr. Stark says. "You have something to say, don't you? Say it. I'm not here to babysit you. You have five seconds. Go."

"I-just-feel-like-your-so-busy-selling-off-the-Stark-intern-that-you-forget-Peter Parker-not-Spider-Man-just-wants-to-be-like-you- and-you-made-me-feel-like-a-commodity-sort-of-a-piece-of-shit- and-it-sorta-hurt-my-feelings-okay-but-its-fine."

I make the wise and totally coherent and calm choice to blurt it all out in less than five seconds, eyes filling unexpectedly while I do it. Jesus! Is it my hormones ridiculous goal to cry about forty percent of the time I hang out with this guy?

Mr. Stark knows full well what I said, but he cups a hand to his ear anyways. "Come again?"

"Why - do I - feel," I try again, my voice haltingly stumbling in a tearful cracked-up tone. "Like - shit - when I'm Peter Parker at Tony Stark's house - but I feel okay when I'm Spiderman - helping Iron Man do something cool?"

"That's a much different question than the sludge you just threw at me a second ago."

"I don't know what I'm trying to say," I wave my hand to try and shoo him away. "I'm just - a moody teenager, right? I'm in a mood. That's all."

"It's a useless mood when there's no reason. If there's a reason and you can't put a finger on it it's even worse. Try me again."

"I don't know," I sniff. "It's like - when I'm the intern - I'm just Peter Parker. A loser."

"Technically you're not an intern at all. That's your cover."

"You don't want me to give the suit back and go apply for colleges instead?"

"Are you shitting me? Of course not. I just want you to be aware of what Stark industries could do for you - what I could do to help. If you ever wanted other opportunities."

I glance at him swiftly. "I don't - I won't. I want you to believe that I'm serious - I want to join the Avengers. Eventually. Maybe after high school. I mean, I appreciate everything you're trying to do, but I don't want to be the intern pawned off to everyone else."

"Does the title INTERN bother you?" Mr. Stark asks sarcastically. "Do you need to change your cover? To - what - a driver? A forklift engineer in the Avengers hangar? A med student? Black Widow's hair stylist? The cover isn't the issue."

"It's how you treat it," I respond, then stop. The difference between when he calls me The Intern and when he calls me The Kid. Then it's kind of like I'm his kid. I remember the awkward moment in Happy's car with a mental facepalm of when I thought he was going for a hug and he said _this is not a hug, I'm just getting the door for you, we're not there yet._

Well, I was there! I have a whole slew of daddy issues, apparently. Not limited to the fact that my dad died when I was really, really young. Aunt May and Uncle Ben took me in and raised me as their kid - and that was the family I knew. And then we lost Uncle Ben. Months later Tony Stark shows up and hands me a platter with a future on it - I took the opportunity, and I guess, an imagined sentiment that it came with.

"Then oh - pray tell - how am I treating your cover incorrectly?" Mr. Stark asks with frustration. "Look - I'm not one to bitch at someone - but I'm sloshed, so I might. I invited you and your aunt to come and have a nice time and meet some people. I'm not going to hold your hand through the process. I'm surprised we're having this conversation. I know I have no right to go into verbal disciplinary mode here… I'm not your dad, but…"

"Yeah, I know," I snap back shortly. "I wish."

Mr. Stark was just about to wag his finger at me and continue with his scolding, but he stops, shuts his mouth, and straightens up ever so slightly.

"I mean… I'm not so lucky… uhhhh..." I backpeddle… "I don't… you're not… so… and it means I just, uh, suck at social interactions, uh…. Sorry? I'll be better."

I can see Mr. Stark's mind clicking things into place. _Tune in next week for an episode of So You Wish I Was Your Dad!_

"Listen, ah," he pulls his glasses off, again, and polishes each lens a little too slowly. He must have hoped that I forgot he already did it and that he's not just stalling for time to think of a response. "You're - you're a good kid, all right? No need to apologize if you're just a big screw up once in awhile. I mean - look at me! Don't think I didn't screw up too." he returns his glasses to his face, blinking - a lot. Blink, blink. Blinking almost like - crying? No way. There's no way he's tearing up right now. His chin does not tremble ever so slightly. I'm imagining a partial smile, as well. There's - no - way.

"Okay, kiddo," he puts his hand on the door. "You just… do whatever… pout, clean up. I don't care. If I were better at this I'd probably give you a hug. But we've already settled that disciplinary Dad mode is preferred so I'll play a little hardball instead. Figure it out, blow your nose. And when you're ready, you come back out to my party and try to enjoy yourself. I'll take it easy on you right now."

I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting, but this seems… okay. "Yeah, sure," I sniff.

"Good," he responds shortly. "Now just a friendly little FYI - I'm not going to be buying you a baseball and then playing catch and then taking you to games anytime soon, got it? I don't really roll that way. But…" he opens the door, and lets the sounds of the party inside, milling through the dark hall. "I can do better," he says quietly. "Maybe not anytime soon, so don't hold your breath. But I hear you, okay? I can do better," he repeats himself, and does not look at me as he practically flees the bathroom and the door swings shut - I turn to look at my surprised face. It still looks like a crying-blotchy, "Sad Tom Holland" face.

… and then the image swirls like a really bad special effect in a Disney channel original movie, and then I'm waking up…

* * *

fin

* * *

…

...

* * *

 **Author's Note**

 **Is that crazy or what?! And that's not even my first Spider-Man dream I've had. My first dream has NEVER BEEN POSTED. I will post it in THIS anthology (once I'm finished typing it up, haha) and you'll be the first ones to read it!**

 **Love,**

 **Pip**


	6. Spider-Man: Undercover Narc

Dear Readers,

I had another totally crazy spider-man dream last year that I wrote half-of and then forgot to finish. I'm finally finishing and posting for the audience's hungry gaze! Haha! If any of you are fans of Avenge the Departed, there's some funny and weird similarities with Peter being an undercover narc in this one too.

One of the funniest things about this dream was the insane plot twist at the very end. Yes, my brain gives me plot twists while I'm asleep. In this dream, Peter's "father" is alive and well - but his dad is not Richard Parker. I'll leave the actual identity of his dad as a surprise.

Right after the "arrests" scene is where I woke up, but I couldn't just leave it with The Bad Guy getting shoved into a cop car and screaming obscenities, so I wrote a sort-of ending that felt on-par with the rest of the dream. It does still end sort of abruptly though, there's not an easy way to end a story when you dreamed it and woke up before it felt over!

So… enjoy the craziness my brain comes up with while unconscious.

\- Pip

* * *

...

* * *

 **WARNING: Rated T/M for detailed drug use** **and language. For the record, I've NEVER done drugs, but my sleepy imagination seems to have a pretty good handle on what it might feel like. I did some research on a subreddit rabbit hole of confessionals to fill in the gaps.**

* * *

 **Peter Parker Goes Undercover**

* * *

...

So I am walking through the city, dressed in normal clothes, (boy's clothes… technically what I'd be wearing on any given day, anyway). My hands shoved in pockets, a messenger bag tucked over one shoulder. I kick a piece of trash aside, sort of just shuffling along. I'm feeling down. Not sure why yet. It's just - cinematically - that moment the young hero has some serious inner debate while taking a solitary walk. I know I am sort of weighed down from the dread of walking towards where I am walking - a place I don't want to go, but I know I am supposed to be there.

It's not a great area of town, large, barren sidewalks and wide asphalt areas for parking that no one ever parks in. There is a _huge_ overpass running high above me (probably an obscenely large freeway), over my head and running off towards my left, going over a river and into another area of town with skyscrapers twinkling in a cold, dead winter sun.

There's a lot of warehouses nearby, and old buildings in white and gray that look like they haven't seen an update since the sixties. The sort of buildings in weird shapes that could have been an old automobile repair job combined with a soda fountain, but now sells old vacuums. There's some storage units, fenced off areas, gravel pits where the supporting columns of the freeway above are planted. There's exposed train tracks in the road and the typical railway signage that accompanies it.

* * *

A/N - As I'm walking by a window, I notice my reflection. I realize I'm not me, I'm dreaming from someone else's perspective.

" _HOLY SHIT,"_ I think. _"I'm Tom Holland!"_

I nod solemnly, like, okay, I can't screw this up. I must be Spider-Man. Time to… do whatever is I'm supposed to be doing. And I continue walking.

* * *

I'm Peter Parker, this is New York City, the river is the Hudson, I have no idea what bridge is over my head. But I am heading for the warehouse nearby. It's nearing dusk but not quite there yet. Then I remember: I'm supposed to go to the warehouse for a party. Not because I am super into parties, but because I've been employed as something of a… a mole.

I'm a narc, to be honest. I _really_ hope no one from school is there. That would just be… awkward.

The backstory starts to come to me at this point. The police… but, not the police - not Shield, either - but some super-secret agency dedicated to eradicating abused substances in New York from teenagers. Like the Hawaii 5-0 task force on tv, except the war on drugs is in concrete jungles, not the kinds of palms and bamboo.

I'd been recruited - apparently I came highly recommended from my connection with the Avengers. Somehow they find out about a Midtown High teenager interning for Tony Stark and they're like "hey! Let's borrow the kid who gets the Avengers their coffee and get him to spy for us on the other teenagers in his hometown to stop drugs!"

Like I need to be ostracized any more.

The instructions were clear throughout the last four months of preparation for this operation.

 _One, befriend the wrong crowd. Hang out with them as much as I can._

This was the worst - living a double life. A double life was actually fun while I was Spider-Man and saving people and doing good things. It's not like I was doing horrible things - It's just… just not doing anything worth anything at all.

Usually I was sitting around playing video games with main group of six or seven guys (sometimes a girl or two) while they moved around in an unusually crowded apartment, smoking, snorting, drinking, and hosting dark secretive meetings in a back room. Sometimes it was just on a street corner, politely declining cigarettes. I'd scoot back and forth on a skateboard, acting as a watchdog while they broke into the nearest car and stole a stereo. I hated passively standing by and letting crime happen. But I reported everything in exquisitely detailed reports to the police, so, at least I was reporting the crimes, right? Which made me less Spider-Man and more Peter Parker.

 _Two, secure an invitation to a party._

Eventually I prove my mettle.

"Me and a couple others are down at the waterfront hangin' out for a big ass party," it begins, "some good stuff there if you're interested. We've enjoyed havin' you around. We might even be lookin' at keeping you more… full time. It's sort of an opportunity for ya, ya get it? Don't embarrass me."

 _Three, go to the party - unwired._

This is highly dangerous, but they'll check for wires. They won't care if I have my phone in my pocket.

 _Four, when they offer me drugs, accept._ Offer to pay what little you have if you can. If they accept the money, great, that's another charge. If not, that's okay. Act grateful.

Apparently it's a lot easier to make charges stick with drug possession if they are guilty of contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

 _Five, go to a hidden place._

A bathroom so covered in graffiti I can barely find the mirror.

 _Six, Call your dad._

He's the kind of guy that kicks down your bedroom door if he thinks you're looking at something you shouldn't online. He's the kind of guy that storms into your classroom because a twenty dollar bill is missing from his wallet. He's the sort of person who shows up in the middle of a date and gives you a talking to about safe sex.

I should clarify - he has literally never had to do ANY of these things with me, he's just intimidating enough to warrant the examples. I am sure he would do these things if he ever had a reason to - but - I'm a good kid, hence, he hasn't. I hope I never give him a reason to. He scares Ned to death.

 _Seven, we'll be tapping the phone._ This is their signal to storm the place - the call won't actually reach my dad, they just want it to _look_ that way so if someone looks at my caller history, I won't look that suspicious. It's going to get intercepted.

 _Eight, get low. Stay low._ When the police storm the place, they're not going to know friend from foe - well, technically they will, but they're not going to out you, either. Hands behind your head - down on your knees, face in the floor. Handcuffed and led out with the rest. When they're gone, get unlocked, make a final report.

Everyone goes home happy.

(I picture about 800 Happy Hogans walking away from the warehouse, whistling. This makes me snicker).

So when I finally get into the party, I'm nervously sweating. It's a nondescript old store, shut down. Looks like it used to be a laundromat or a salon. I had to walk around an empty parking lot, slip between a chain link fence and the side street, to get to an old, gray maintenance door which now makes the entrance.

There's cardboard over windows, which rattle from the music pulsing within.

I know the bouncer, it's one of the guys I've been hanging out with for four months. He grasps my hand and pulls me in for a man-hug and pounds me once on the back.

"Glad you could make it."

Then he opens the door for me.

I get inside and the music is so loud it physically hurts. It's dark and very, very crowded. The lights are from the neon strands stapled to the top and bottom of the hallway, a sort of dark red guide. It could almost pass as a hallway from a spaceport tavern in Star Wars.

There's so many people I don't know. A lot of people my age, but luckily, no one from school. There's also a lot more _older_ people than I expected - not like the young adults I'd been hanging out with that weren't all that bad, just ruffian criminals who suffered from addictions.

These were men and women that were in the _industry_ of trafficking. You could see the pain inflicted on others reflected in their eyes, lives destroyed in their tattoos, a disregard from human life in the way they spoke and interacted. These ones were bigger - leaner - harder - and way scarier. The neon lights, from the strands and the battery operated strobes stashed in corners, flash against their faces, a horror like effect on the stop motion animation of their expressions.

I invisibly tried to maneuver through the crowded hallway where people were laughing and smoking and talking over the music. There were literally broken pieces of drug equipment and paraphernalia all over the floor. Graffiti covering every surface. It sort of smells like piss.

I finally spot someone I know and actually smile with relief. They wave me over where they sit in the main room, which probably used to be a lobby (since there is a reception counter in the back, now being used as a bar instead), but instead of waiting chairs and potted plants, there's old, torn up couches, and gross coffee tables.

I would literally gag if I thought too hard about what this room would look like under a blacklight.

One of the guys, Gino, hands me a drink. I accept with a thank-you and immediately take a sip, gritting my teeth to keep myself from making an expression of horror. Being a _teenager,_ I don't know how to identify what I am drinking. Probably vodka, if I had to guess.

Instead I just accept placidly and stand, refusing to sit on the crowded couch. One of the corners is occupied by a couple three minutes shy of "finding a back room". The others are just talking loudly about things I can't even comprehend.

I miss the simple days when the only language I had to decipher was calculus.

"And I was like, fuck man," says one, "And then this motherfucka pulls this shit a second time - and he got completely nailed, man…"

"Shit," replies his audience.

"Yeah," he replies, "Right there in front of God'n ev'rybody."

I cough on the alcohol and try to mimic what people around me are doing. If they laugh, I chuckle politely. If they shake their heads in sympathy and say _Fuck dude,_ I nod along with them, my haphazard "damn" popping out a few seconds later than everyone else. I finish my drink and begin on a second.

Someone I recognize steps into my line of vision. _Oh my gosh._

It's Michelle.

She, too, is pressing through others in the hallway, but from the back end of the building. She has a red solo cup in one hand. She doesn't look like she's having much fun - in fact, she looks pissed.

She makes eye contact with me.

For a moment we just stare at each other in shock. I can't imagine what she is doing here - how she knows the right kind of people to get in here. The only reason _I_ know these people is because the agency helped me orchestrate a "random" meeting between myself and a person of interest named Gino. They made it look like _I_ was the person of interest, and when the real guy was nearby, I "bumped" into him on my way into a well-known area of frequent drug sales.

Like magic, Gino offered me a place to "chill" until the feds weren't following me anymore. I followed to an empty house n the Bronx totally destroyed by squatters, visited only by those that wanted a private place to get high and overdose in peace and quiet.

I felt like an asshole while he was offering me shelter, I began the great manipulation of trying to become his friend.

I tug awkwardly at the strap of my messenger bag, trying to decide whether or not I should approach her… say hello…

Michelle's eyebrows are furrowed together, as if she's trying to figure me out. Then she makes an expression of disgust and turns away.

I start to wave her down, but I hesitate. I can't blow what I am about to do.

She sips the last of whatever she is drinking, drops it on the floor, and walks right out of the building.

"MJ," I start to say, but bite it back. It's better that she leaves. She's safe if she's gone.

How long was she here before I was here? Did she leave because of me? Was she leaving anyway and she's mad at me for staying? Maybe she's totally innocent here - maybe a friend was like, come to this party, and when she got here she was as disgusted as I was. Maybe she was just disappointed in me as a person for being here of my own choosing.

Gino looks up at me. "You need to relax, my lil' man," he says, gesturing me to join him down on the couch and points with a flourish at the coffee table.

My stomach turns over at the small lines of white powder in a row on the table's surface.

He sees my face and laughs. "First time for everything."

"Yeah," I say. _Stay calm, stay cool. Just a tiny bit. Then laugh it off and say no more for me, thanks._ "Isn't that," I say, coughing, "Isn't that - a lot? I don't know, man. I'm like - really poor. I don't have much." I pull two twenty dollar bills out of my pocket apologetically.

He waves me off. "Put that shit away - first time on me."

I sit next to him on the couch. I was just supposed to _buy_ drugs, not _do them in front of everyone._ Holy shit. Oh crap.

If we were literally about to do anything other than FREAKIN' COCAINE, Gino's reactions with me would almost be kindly, friendly, even.

"Look, ya git nervous your first time, I get that," he elbows me. "Look, I go first, show you how it's done - okay? Then you go."

I gulp and nod, watching with a passive expression - but my insides recoiling with an uncomfortable gut instinct screaming 'help'. Gino runs his nose along the edge of the table with an inhale, plugging one nostril and half the white powder disappears.

Then he sits back with a satisfied "Ah!", like a Got Milk commercial.

When I hesitate, his eyes change slightly from gratefully high to an expression of stern annoyance. "Don't be a pussy," he says. "What'd the fuck did you come for anyhow?"

So I lean down and try to do what he did. It's either that or blow my cover. I won't do much. Maybe I can sorta fake it.

I barely sniff up any of the white powder before I sit back immediately, fighting a sneeze and coughing, squinting my eyes and blinking rapidly.

Gino and the others are laughing way too hard and pounding me on the back.

"I - need - to - sneeze," I exclaim haltingly.

"You did it wrong," Tony says, "Switch nostrils, try again."

My senses are pounding in every sense of _danger, stop, don't, bad, stay away -_ but I do as he says. This time I don't need to sneeze. I sit back slowly and sit quietly, my gaze zoned out as I nervously wait to feel anything at all. Gino and the others laugh, point, and wait for me to react.

I press my hand to my face.

"My face is going numb," I say.

"That's the good stuff!" they howl with laughter and congratulations.

"I gotta - is my face still there?" I press both hands into my cheeks. Nothing.

Everyone is still laughing at me. "Shit's still there, bro," Gino says, pounding my back. "Go look in the effing powder room if you need to see for yourself."

"I'll be right back, I swear," I plaster on the fakest smile for good measure. "I want to try that again."

 _I NEVER WANT TO DO THAT AGAIN._

"My man," Gino says in a congratulatory tone. He immediately loses his focus on me and goes right back to the drugs. The others are pining for a turn. No one notices me as I stand up, slightly wobbly, and walk towards the bathroom.

I turn into the darkened hallway. There's only one bathroom, a tiny little employee restroom, and there's a line to it. Girls in busty, short dresses, with heavy make-up and smoking and hanging on the arms of the ones next to them. A few dudes adjusting their profoundly low pants and knocking on the door every so often, screaming at whomever is inside to hurry the fuck up.

I get to the back of the line, keeping my head low to avoid meeting anyone's gaze.

While I am waiting, I start to feel _something._ Not quite what my handler and the 'drug professional' said might happen, should I be forced to try anything to maintain my cover. Of course I think they only had to give me that information to avoid getting sued, I don't think they ever thought for a moment I might actually be asked to do drugs with no way to back out.

In addition to the numb sensation, I start to feel a gross taste at the back of my mouth and throat, but I'm sort of happy about it.

No, not happy. Joyful, oddly enough.

I'm self aware enough to just say I've hit _some_ sort of high. I don't know if it's the sort of euphoria that my handler said people have when they do cocaine. In fact, no one expected me to try anything stronger than sneaking some weed from Gino - which, technically, is more of a common thing and they aren't worried about health effects.

For the record, I never smoked anything, and when Gino offered, I said no. It wasn't as big a deal _then._ But today, trying that stuff was some sort of test - one that I passed.

They underestimated how much the guys I'd been hanging out with trusted me, I guess. They thought I'd maybe smoke a little weed and that would be that. They probably didn't even fathom a guess that Gino and the rest would offer me cocaine the first time I ever go to a party. This scares me. What exactly gives them any right to rope me into this, anyway, then put me in a situation where they hope I buy drugs, but it turns out they want me to _SAMPLE_ it first, and the drug of choice is cocaine?!

And why the hell did I agree to this anyway?

I should have employed the playful banter that better appears when I'm Spider-Man. "Gee, guys," I should have said, "I'd _love_ to help, but I just - don't want to. Bye!"

I finally get my turn in the bathroom. I shut the door and lock it, leaning against it and slamming my head back a little too hard on the black paint. But I don't hurt my head, because I'm still numb.

With anxious hands I pull out my phone and call my Dad's number, expecting to hear my handler on the other line from the surveillance van.

 _Ring, ring._

"Peter," my Dad's intimidating voice is not lessened by the tinny feedback of being on a phone. "Where've you been all afternoon?"

I feel like I'm going to throw up. _He wasn't supposed to answer._

Did something go wrong with their tech? Are they even _listening_ to the call? Wasn't my call supposed to reach _them_ instead?

Before I can panic, my brain kicks into some weird, overly confident decision that I - Peter Parker - am such a talented narc, I can just roll with the punches. Stick with the script. Still help save the world - even if my certifiably insane dad is on the other line.

"Can you come pick me up?" I ask, my voice hitching. I hate how I feel right now - so blissfully la-dee-dah that it strikes me in a weird way, where I acknowledge I should be feeling guilty right now for what I am about to say but just… not.

"Are you at Ned's? Can you tell him to turn that god-awful music down for a second?"

"I'm - not at Ned's."

"Where are you?"

"The abandoned building under the overpass on Waterfront Avenue. The white and gray one. I don't remember the number."

"What the hell - are you - doing there…" he slowly stops and seems to change tactics. "Where is that music coming from? Who's with you?"

I suddenly feel a rush of exceptional heat pass from the top of my head throughout my entire body, like adrenaline, only warmer and weirder. After the sort of weird flushing sensation trembles on the back of my neck, my arms, my lower back, I just feel nauseous.

"Peter! Answer me!"

"I'm really, really sorry," I say. "I'm…at a party. And I'm... high."

There's a stunned silence. For a moment, I'm afraid he might hang up on me. In fact he _should._ Let him hang up on me and let the cops and the agency do their jobs. He wasn't even supposed to be involved! The call was supposed to be fake!

"What are you on?" he asks.

I hesitate.

"Answer me."

"Uh… cocaine? It's not very much - I swear, I just had a little bit."

I am not helping my case much. I just hope the agency can explain it was a necessary evil and I am really a hero and they needed me to get high so I wouldn't blow my cover.

"I'm coming," he says in the darkest tone I have ever heard him use. "Stay there. Don't move, don't talk to anyone, stay put. If you do anything else or call the cops or something stupid I swear I will fucking kill you myself. I'll call you when I'm outside."

Then he hangs up.

I blink for a moment, dropping my phone in the sink, and slumping over the porcelain edge. My bag feels too heavy for a moment, so I slip it off one shoulder, check to make sure it's still only filled with school books, and not half a dozen bricks made out of sparkles and glass and vibranium and…

Whoaaaaah. Where is that coming from?

Dad is mad. REALLY mad.

Yikes. I am definitely getting grounded - but... I'm saving people from … uh… future drug deals. Right. That's the objective.

Wait… did my own dad just threaten to kill me?

This should hurt my feelings.

It hurts somewhere deeper, in my belly. Maybe that's not my feelings. That's mY INjeStED DruGs.

I have no feelings. Yay me.

I tilt my head in a sort of circle, winding my neck around and feeling the bones pop. I replace my phone in my pocket and stumble a little at the door, opening it and practically falling out. _This is weird._ I wasn't prepared for any of this. What does one do when barely - slightly high and feeling brazen and noodly and unsteady and like showing off your exceptional super-human talents?

I consider a few options. Walk up the wall? Swing from one of the upper lights? Punch through a wall? _Take_ a punch? Challenge someone to a fight?

I know for a fact I could beat anyone here three times over. No one would be a match for Spider-Man.

I bounce off a few people unexpectedly, not really aware of spatial differences. That'd probably be from the alcohol. I had forgotten I was on my second drink before snorting cocaine. I can't believe I can _say_ that now. Snorting cocaine. Geeze!

I feel like the room is slowly tilting. I lean against the wall to avoid tipping over.

I decide to avoid Gino and his group. I already committed to trying cocaine again, so let them think I am in the bathroom staring at my reflection for a strange amount of time.

Instead, a girl comes up to me with a tray of shots and offers one to me. I take one and let out a surprised _ACGH_ when it sets my throat on fire. Another flash of warmth leaks through my limbs and makes my heart start pounding extra loud. My palms feel clammy.

 _Maybe I'm not that high,_ I hope. _Maybe I'm just tipsy. I'd rather be tipsy than high._

I try to make my way to another of the bigger rooms, not too far in the back where there's too many curtained spaces for my liking, but somewhere in the middle where maybe it used to be a large enough office space for three or four cubicles. It has since been totally trashed, there's a tv set up and a half-kitchenette and a table and chairs. There looks like there is a very intense poker game going on, and someone is counting a stack of one hundred dollar bills.

I find a slightly empty space along the wall and my back hits it with a thud. I slide down to the floor and hug my knees, blearily looking up at the ceiling for no reason.

One of the poker players turns slightly in her chair and looks at me, her heavily wrinkled and meth-damaged face covered with thick make-up and dyed blonde hair.

"Dafuq's wrong with you?" she asks.

I look at her and blink twice. "Bad… bad trip," I try, hoping the slang might come in handy.

"First time swimming?" she asks.

"Y-y-eah." _Swimming means trying cocaine, right? Or does it mean doing drugs in general? What if it means something else? I don't remember if we went over this one!_

"You're too young for this shit," she says, annoyed, turning back in her chair.

I receive a text from my handler's number. Confused, I read it a few times.

 _Tell him to come inside._

Tell who? And why are they texting me directly? They didn't want things to look suspicious if someone took my phone, much less have an ongoing texting conversation from the guy in the surveillance van.

Then, I get a text from my dad.

 _I'm outside._

With shaking fingers, I text back. _Can you come get me please._

 _What's wrong?_

This gives me pause. What's WRONG? I told him already.

I get another text from my handler.

 _Tell him to come inside._

I start crying and I don't know why.

 _Dad,_ I write, _please come inside and get me_

 _Are you hurt?_ He asks.

If he thought I was hurt, I wonder angrily, why ask? He's my _dad._ I thought that whole unconditional fatherly love overrides all anger and curiosity. Why isn't he storming in here? Asking drug addicts where they've last seen his son?

If he truly worried… if he truly _loved me…_

I don't allow myself to finish that train of thought and I decide not to answer. Maybe this is how they build their case somehow and make sure I don't get hurt. Maybe as long as I am with my legal guardian when the arrests are made, maybe the police can check something off a long list of necessary items they need for pressing charges. I'm just a kid. I'm not a detective, a cop, or even a good narc. In fact, I think I suck at being a narc for the sheer fact of taking drugs my first time in a true sting operation.

I text Dad back.

 _Please help me_

And I leave it at that. His stern face appears in an icon as he tries to place a call to me. I let the phone ring on silent and let it go to voicemail, standing uncomfortably. Maybe I should text my handler back?

That's when I hear the _bang_ out front of the door opening and the angry shouts of the patrons in the front hall.

The door beside me slams open, and I hear more shouts of others yelling _Cops! Clear out!_ Gino and a few of the others I know book it past me. The others jump up from their poker game. They're all aiming for an exit door in the wall with a burnt out sign above it.

But the exit door blasts open, and there's a loud _boom_ sound. Cops come pouring in with guns, their voices all blending together in shouts of _Police! Hands in the air! Show me your hands! Down on the ground!_

I do what they ask, unable to check the tears still pouring down my numb face. Part of me realizes I could probably take out everyone in this room. The other half regresses to the age of eight and wonders _I want my daddy. Where is he?_

I lace my fingers together behind my head and face the wall as I ask, and a cop comes up behind me and pats me down, and then suddenly kicks the back of my locked leg, knocking me to my knees, my bag hitting me hard in the hip, which the cop quickly rips open and checks.

He shoves my face into the floor while he jerks my arms from behind my head to my lower back, cuffing me. I let out a surprised yelp of protest that I quickly bite back.

Then he uses my wrists to pull me back to my feet, my shoulder sockets straining painfully. "Come on," he says harshly, pushing me back through the inner door towards the middle room, where the room is being cleared. People are mirroring our movements - pinned to the ground, hands cuffed, angry words shouted, some trying to run and getting knocked down. Someone near the bathroom pulls a gun, and I hear a single shot.

 _Shot fired._

The rest of the others scream and duck in place. The cop behind me shoves me to the ground again, and there's more screaming - but this time, it's not panicking partiers, its the cops shouting instructions to whomever pulled the gun. My face is pressed into the carpet. It smells like body odor and whiskey.

A staticky voice comes onto the radio of the cop holding my wrists. _Shooter in custody. Proceed._

I march like I am heading for the hangman's noose.

I'm filed out with several others in a sort of stream, out into the fading evening light, gray and lavender above, and a strip of bright white where the sun considers the upstate hills visible in a smoggy distance. The river glitters beyond the industrial wastes.

"PETER!" I hear a voice coming from my right. It's my dad.

He's struggling with another cop, looking over at me.

The cop is pulling his arms behind his back, pushing - forcing him - over the hood of one of the cop cars in order to better cuff his hands.

"That's another charge of resisting arrest if you don't calm the fuck down," says the cop.

"Wait, wait, what?" I call out. "Dad?"

My dad's face turns on the hood, facing me again, his cheekbone mashed into the metal. He's not worried, and he's not struggling with the cop to get to _me._

He's glaring at me, like he wants to kill me.

I've never seen so much hatred in someone's eyes before. I mean - I've seen a lot of anger from him. Some dislike. Casual threats disguised as stern parenting.

But I never thought he didn't love me before.

"Dad?" I call again, and the cop behind me nods to the cop holding down my dad.

"Adrian Toomes," he says, "You're under arrest for drug trafficking, drug distribution, contribution to the delinquency of a minor, Airplane Hijacking, Armed Robbery, Assault with a Deadly Weapon, Assaulting or Killing Federal Officer, Domestic Terrorism…" he pauses. "Am I forgetting anything?"

"...the murder of Jackson Brice," says another cop nearby, with a smile on his face. "Illegal Possession of Firearms, Sale of Stolen Vehicles, Use of Weapons of Mass Destruction."

"Dad," I whisper.

"Oh, shit," says the cop, realizing I'm there. "Get him back to his handler."

The cop uncuffs me.

"For real?" I hear Gino exclaim nearby. "Fucking NARC! You fucking asshole! I'll fucking kill you!"

"What's going on," I blab loudly. "Dad, you didn't kill anyone…"

Dad looks up at me, looking a little saddened by my statement, but not because I'm telling the truth. Because he disagrees with me. The only way he'd do that is if…

"My dad didn't kill anyone," I bawl, but I'm less certain this time.

I feel a hand grip my arm. It's my handler, trying to move me away from where they are currently arresting my dad - shoving him away - putting him into the back of the car -

But he's still struggling.

"Okay, and a charge of resisting arrest," exclaims the cop with annoyance.

"Come on, Peter, you did good," says my handler.

"It was all a LIE?" I exclaim. "You were just using me to get to _him?"_

"Shut UP, PETER," my dad suddenly roars. "Just shut the FUCK up, okay?"

"Get the fuck in the car," snaps the cop.

Dad's shoving the officer with his elbow, keeping his upper body out of the car, trying to look at me over the back door.

"Dad," I say helplessly, "I'm sorry. I'm _sorry…_ I didn't know. I didn't know. _I didn't know."_

"I'll fucking kill you myself, you fucking disappointment!"

I hear his words, I see his mouth moving, I see the anger in his eyes, but I hardly believe what I'm hearing.

My knees start to give out, and I finally let my handler drag me away.

Dad disappears into the cop car. They shut the door. The others are getting loaded, too. Sirens turning off, but the lights continue to rove. The sun dips below the horizon, streaks of yellow and red, like bloody, infected wounds, rip across the sky.

My handler parks me on the bench, adjusting his belt. His portruding stomach usually looks as if it's about the pop the last two buttons of his suit, but it never does. "What the hell happened in there?" he asks.

"You're asking _ME?"_ I exclaim. "What the hell happened to YOU? You said you were going to intercept the call. It went right to my dad and he _came to get me."_

"He was already here," sighs my handler. "We needed him inside. We can't arrest a guy for sitting in a parked car."

"What about those other charges?" I demand, tears filling my eyes. "Those aren't… they're not…"

My handler pauses, hesitating before answering honestly. "This was always about building a case against your dad." He sighs and drops onto the bench next to me. "He's a dangerous criminal. We haven't been able to catch him red-handed in anything, which always looks good for a jury. We had to get him in a sting operation, and the other charges will be easier to prove with the evidence…"

"What evidence," I reply, my voice giving out. I wipe my nose and look away. Sniff, wipe. Sniff, wipe. I'm crying, but my nose feels weird, too. _I_ feel weird.

Like I'm walking on rainclouds upside down and I'm grinning in my brain, but my face is sorrowfully drawn.

"Shit," my handler exclaims. "Did you _TAKE_ something?"

I pause. _I don't trust this guy. Not anymore._

"No," I lie. "I'm crying. That's what this sniffing is. I'm _sad._ You tricked me so you could arrest my dad for stuff that… that…"

"Stuff you didn't think he did?" he fills in. "You sure about that?"

I watch the car with my dad in the backseat drive away.

As they pass us, sitting at the abandoned bus stop bench at the side of the road, he stares at me through the window.

He stares so hard it makes me shudder - it's a look that could murder me if there wasn't a window between us.

Suddenly I realize he would if he could. If not now, maybe in the future. Maybe a downhill spiral of verbal abuse, drinking and drug use, his criminal life becoming more and more apparant, until one day I get home from school and he's waiting angrily at the kitchen table with a gun…

I open my mouth, and shut it again, and then try. "I don't know anymore. I never saw anything. Heard anything."

"Yeah, well, those long business trips weren't to Tokyo," my handler sighs. "He was right here in New York, blowing shit up. Remember that plane that went down on the beach awhile back?"

I blink.

No.

No… way.

Spider-Man brought that plane down - because the Vulture was trying to hijack it from the Avengers.

 _The Vulture._

The masked, aviary figure in black and brown leather, with a mask like a steampunk nightmare. I've never seen his face, only those red-light eyes in the aviator's oxygen mask.

I've never heard his voice, except through that ventilator.

But Spider-Man has fought him, brought him down in that plane crash to keep him from stealing important artifacts from the Avengers.

The Vulture managed to fly away.

I always thought of him as my personal Carmen Sandiego, that arch villain that always gets thwarted at the last minute, and then escapes at the very end.

"My dad is the Vulture?" I ask, in absolute horror.

"OH, so you HAVE heard of him," my handler says.

"Only from interning at the Avengers," I reply shyly. "You know. Why you wanted me in the first place. Because people like Steve Rogers and Tony Stark trust me to bring them coffee."

"Well, we lied about that too," he shrugs. "We had a suspicion that Adrian Toomes was the Vulture. We figured his son could ignorantly help us get to him. Finding out you were an Avenger-lackey was just an added bonus when we…"

I stand up abruptly. "I'm done."

"Wait…"

"No. You don't get it. _I'm done._ You tricked me. You lied to me. I thought this was just about cleaning up the street crime, getting drugs away from kids like me, like - good things. Arresting my dad was never part of the deal."

"You'll be expected to testify…"

"I'm not testifying against my _dad."_

"Because he's such a great dad?" he replies nastily, mockingly. "I heard what he said to you just a minute ago. He threatened to kill you. Believe me, that's going in his long, long line up of sins. He's going to be put away for a long time."

"Then you don't need me."

"Yes, we do…"

"I said NO!" I wrench away and begin walking quickly down the street.

"Need I remind you that you're a minor and it's going to be dark soon…" he calls after me. "We have to be in touch with the guardian who can take you in. May Parker, correct?"

I stop.

Aunt May. I'll have to go live with my Aunt May until this gets figured out. But… she and Uncle Ben… they always loved me, and all, they always said they wanted kids but "couldn't possibly afford them"... My mom used to send them regular care packages before she died when their money was really tight.

Dad never took it up after, and I always wondered if it was because he was grieving.

Maybe it turns out he just wasn't a good person at all.

And my Uncle Ben just died last year - Aunt May was still grieving. Surely she wouldn't want me around to interrupt that. Won't she be upset that she's being shouldered with this?

"My Aunt May," I say resignedly. "She gets off work tonight around eleven or midnight."

"We'll be in touch with her then. You'll have to wait at the station for her to pick you up."

I can't handle the thought of waiting at the police station for the next… 5 or 6 hours.

"I have somewhere else I can go," I say, putting my hands in my pockets. "You can tell her I'll be at my internship, and I'll go to her apartment on my usual bus."

"Peter, that's not how that works… you need to be in custody of someone cleared to…"

I walk away, and I sense my handler's hands drop to his side, finally giving up. At least he doesn't try to chase me down, handcuff me, shove me into the back of a cruiser like they did to my dad…

" _I'll fucking kill you myself, you fucking disappointment!"_

As soon as I'm in an alley far enough away from the sting, I shrug out of my messenger bag, open the flap, and begin to remove my clothes and shove them inside. Underneath my civilian clothes is, of course, my Spider-Man uniform.

I tug the mask over my head, and slam my palm on my chest.

 _ZILCH._ The suit tightens up, and I throw the bag back over my shoulders, press my fingers to my palm, and watch the stream _thwip_ up to the nearest cornice.

I retract and swoop up into the air, running briefly up the brick walls and catching the edge with both palms, swinging up and over, flipping over my head and landing, feet first, with a huff inside of the roof.

I take a running start across the slanted roofline ahead of me, ignoring the view, ignoring the falling light, the golden sunset glinting off the building's edges.

The roof looks like it is tipping over on it's side, and my feet turn into paddle boards.

My heart aches, and tears flow, my nose feels weird, and my head is still ballooning in a drunken sort of cloudy stupor. I thought watching my dad get arrested was 'sobering' as the saying goes - it wasn't. It was just distracting.

Now I'm still feeling the effects of two drinks, a shot of something, and a snort of… cocaine.

 _Holy shit, I did cocaine._

This is bad. This is very, very bad.

I skid to a halt, my feet grinding through that weird gravel material they deposit inside rooflines on apartment buildings amongst the exhaust pipes and chimneys.

"Um," I say awkwardly. "Call Tony Stark."

Karen puts the call through. It rings only once.

"What's up, kid?" Mr. Stark answers cheerfully. "How goes the neighborhood… friendly… whatever?"

"I… I don't know how to tell you this," I say hesitantly.

"Uh - maybe don't, then. I don't know if I can handle this today." He's joking, clearly in a very good mood. I hate being the one to bring that down. "I'm sure whatever it is, we can take care of it. Did you hit an old lady with a spoon?"

"Karen, can you send Mr. Stark a read out… of… me?"

"Sure thing, Peter."

"Why are you sending me your vitals right now?" Mr. Stark mumbles. "What am I looking at, here?"

There's a pause.

And then there's a crash.

"Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Peter Parker." I hear a scrambling of… something. I don't even know what. "What the _fuck_ am I looking at? Dear god, in Heaven, please tell me this is some sort of hacking prank and your friend Ned Nederlander is just screwing with me."

"No…"

"So according to your blood-alcohol level, you're drunk."

"My powers are keeping that at a minimum, I think it's tipsy."

"And what is this percentage of toxicity here?" another pause. There's a thump, like he's sitting down heavily in a chair.

A long, long silence.

Too long.

"Mr. Stark?"

"Don't say it."

"It's…"

"Nope…"

"I did something…"

"SomeTHING. Not just any THING."

He pauses.

"Cocaine. Please tell me I'm wrong."

"Um," I whisper, "No."

"I'm at a loss. I have no words. Let it be known that - this - this is how I die. Shock and the inability to speak."

"Mr. Stark," I say slowly, and my voice cracks. "I know this - this looks bad. But it's not what you think. I'm… I'm a narc."

"Yeah. Okay. Sure."

He doesn't believe me.

"It's true. I'm undercover. Or I was."

"Jesus Christ. I'm coming to get you right now. And I'm driving you straight home and we are talking with your father. You are benched, kid, at least until I talk to my guy in the PD… figure out what the hell they were thinking…"

"Back - back up, Mr. Stark. We can't do any of that."

"Why the hell not? I'm calling your dad right now."

"Don't…. Don't do that."

"That's absolutely not an option. You're a _minor._ And you're plastered."

"He's not going to answer."

Pause.

"Hmph. He's not answering." I hear him take a deep, yoga-like breath. "Let's rewind a second. I need you to explain _narc_ to me."

"Part of an undercover operation with the NYPD. Well, part of one of their task forces, anyway. At least I was. Kind of."

"And why in the world were they interested in Peter Parker? Do they know about…?"

"No, they don't know I'm Spider-Man."

"Then why, Peter? How do you expect me to believe that? Peter Parker is a good kid. Why do they rope him into undercover work?"

"I _thought_ it was because I interned for _you._ It meant I was trustworthy."

"Thought," he repeats. "Past tense. What changed?"

I groan slightly. I feel sick to my stomach. Alcohol is gross. How does anyone drink this stuff on _purpose?_

"I'm having a hard time thinking comprehensively right now," I mutter woozily.

"I'm on my way," Mr. Stark says, a little less abrasively. "Just sit down wherever you're at."

"On a roof at the corner of…"

"I pinged the suit. I know _where_ you're at. Just sit the hell down before you fall off the goddamn thing."

I sit.

"There. Now sit. Stay."

"I'm… not a dog."

"Well, you're going to sit and stay anyway." I hear a car motor start. "Go back to the beginning. Why are you high as fuck right now?"

"I thought it was part of my cover. I was at a party my handler told me to go to. I got scared. I thought I had to. So they could press charges."

"What the actual fuck?" he pauses. "Press charges on who? The person with the drugs? You?"

"It was all a lie to begin with." I unexpectedly let out a sob. I thought I was all cried out, but, there it is. "They weren't even after the drugs. They were after my dad."

There's a squeak of brakes.

"Red light," I hear him mutter. "Come on, let's GO. GREEN means GO." Another sigh. "What does that mean? AFTER your dad?"

"They made me call him, ask him to come get me. Turns out he was waiting outside the whole time. When he came inside they arrested him."

"For what? Picking his kid up at a bad party? What the hell?"

"No… for… murder, and a lot of other stuff." I cry softly and wish I could take the mask off, but I'm using the line in my suit, not the phone. I have to keep it on for now, but the saltwater makes my face itch. "I guess my Dad is… the Vulture."

I hear traffic below me, and on Mr. Stark's end.

"Dear god."

The engine revving, a little faster.

Nothing but the car driving for a moment.

"I didn't know," I cry quietly. "I never knew anything about it. I _didn't know."_

"Kid. I'm so sorry. I don't even know what to say."

"Don't say anything," I say, maybe a little harshly. "He's been… um… after the Avengers… and, me, I guess, Spider-man… for so long… I thought you should know."

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know. I'm high."

"Wrong question. Instinct. Uh. Jesus Christ, kid." He _huffs_ a bit. "You know being tricked into being bait and everything… you know that's not your fault, right?"

"I don't know."

"I know catching bad guys is what we do. But. You shouldn't have been forced into a situation where you're put in a position to catch your own dad. That's fucked up."

"I don't know what to do."

"I'm assuming you'll stay with that aunt of yours."

"They said as much."

"She's still working late shifts?"

"Yeah."

"I'll put Happy on getting in touch with her."

Silence.

"Do I have to go to the hospital or something?" I ask meekly.

"Why?" he asks slowly. "Do feel okay?"

"I feel fine, just sort of weirdly euphoric. I didn't know if I was supposed to."

"I don't want you to _move._ I want you to _stay."_ He pauses. "Wait. How long ago did you take this stuff?"

How _long_ ago? How can I tell how much time has passed? I feel like my entire life has collapsed in some way since then. I took the drugs, snuck to the bathroom, called my dad, hid in the kitchen… the police swarmed, he was arrested, and I climbed up here. I check the timestamp on my phone and sigh.

"Peter."

"Only twenty two minutes ago." I giggle.

"What are you giggling about?"

"My phone just turned bright pink." I pause. "Whoa. No, my _hand_ is pink. My phone is melting."

"The real-deal hits about fifteen to thirty minutes in," Mr. Stark explains slowly.

"And how do _you_ know?" I ask.

"Grown-ups know grown-up things."

I sigh. "I'm sorry."

Silence.

"Don't apologize, Peter. You're young. You didn't know what you were doing. _They_ sure as hell didn't know what they were doing, otherwise you wouldn't be sitting on a rooftop right now watching pink elephants on parade."

"Was… was that a Pinocchio reference?"

"Dumbo, actually, smart ass." I hear a smile in his voice. "You're going to be okay. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"No matter what happens. With your dad. Or your aunt. It's going to be okay. We'll make sure it's okay. If Aunt May needs money for an attorney and get custody, we can help with that. I'm rich and pissed about it. Okay?"

I almost want to cry, but I laugh instead. "Yes, sir."

"I'll be there in two minutes. I'm on your street."

"Okay. I'm waiting right here."

"What are you seeing right now?" he asks, curiously.

"Um - well - the clouds look like pink elephants, to be perfectly honest. And my vision is wobbly."

"Good news is, that's not a hallucination. That little bit of smog and pollution is going a long way."

I smile at the horizon. "It looks nice."

"That's New York, for ya."

"Yeah," I say.

That's New York for ya. That's home. Maybe my dad has given up on being a dad - hell, he may have given up long ago. But I'm not going to give up. Not on Spider-Man, not on New York. They're stuck with me for awhile.

"Kid? You still with me?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Stark. Still here. I think I'll stick around for a long time."

...

* * *

...

 **THE END**

...

* * *

SEE WHAT MY BRAIN COMES UP WITH WHEN I'M ASLEEP? I have serious dream weirdness, guys! Please leave a review if you enjoyed!


	7. Give Me the Words

**Give Me The Words**

 **by Pippin Strange**

* * *

 **Fitz finds himself in the swirling confusion of a coma, and has to deal with process of waking up and realizing he is no longer the same.** **Interlude between Season 1 and Season 2.**

* * *

:::

 **Snow**

:::

* * *

I think I am looking at a snowcap.

 _Peaceful._

A blanket of white, as far as the eye can see.

 _So, so very quiet, and calm..._

It reminds me of a summit trip to _Beinn Nibheis_ , the mountainous remains of a three hundred million year-old volcano. I am not one for athleticism, but for science I find myself doing nearly anything. That includes scaling the absolute tallest mountain in the Scotland highlands to visit an old observatory. It was staffed in the early century, long since abandoned, with standing walls and a war memorial. Meteorology and geology are probably the furthest from my branch of science; but I went. It was beautiful. Mum and I went together, since she likes that sort of thing but was never sure why I like to spend my time indoors. That's what engineers do; sequestering ourselves with tools and the joy to build and uncover pieces to puzzles. I would have liked to gone up the mountain with her again, poor old Mum, but I was so far away from home.

Truth be told, I was feeling a little homesick for the comfort of childhood... although it was during those formative years that I discovered I was too smart for my own good and that no one liked me at school. I was the Einstein and I had to move up several grades, the tediousness of the subjects boring me nearly to death. But what I wouldn't give for something complicated right now, for it was like going back to school... finishing half of the advanced calculus book within the first week and asking when we got to move on to physics. Everything around me was far too simple and I longed for something challenging, but nothing computed.

My body was in agreement with some other entity, to keep things simple and running at absolute minimum. I might be trapped somewhere between his betrayal and the afterlife. He won't get away with this that easily, this I know. He can't treat his friends like this. Even if it seemed I wouldn't be getting away at all.

There was snow.

 _Peaceful._

The snow was growing smaller. The glow was disappearing before my eyes, shrinking in on itself. I didn't like the view without it. A black circle increased in size until it encompassed all, and inside the darkness, there was a voice that I opted to ignore. It pestered, it cajoled, but I was not listening. I wasn't following anything willingly into the yawning black maw. I wanted to see the snow again.

It was so cold. It was that temperature that made me feel so perfectly happy. But I couldn't find you, and that made me worried. Slightly. Where were you, in the blue murk? Was I holding your hand? We had been holding hands, hadn't we. I thought you might have kissed me, crying, desperately trying to get me to change my mind about something.

That's when the black hole began to speak.

"Are you with us?"

White light, black hole. White light, red mouth. Words that didn't make sense, just mushy words, falling over each other to form a sentence aimed for me. I felt as if I was trying to answer a phone programmed in a language that I couldn't speak.

"Come on, open up your eyes."

The snowscape was gone, but the cold remained. Ice cold, bone marrow turned to frost so quickly that it felt like iron rods has been thrust through my veins, causing something to seize. I could hear the sound of my body arching upwards and incessant beeping. I couldn't get high enough but it wasn't like I was really trying, I was simply obeying a spasm, and just when it seemed as if I'd be stiff like this forever, the beeping sound regulated and my heart slammed back into my chest. I was weighted and full of things that I couldn't remember.

Color, and then smoke.

The black kind that smells bad and makes you choke.

The room swam like drunkenness, spinning until I was sick all over myself and filling up the tiny enclosure pinching my nose and consistently pushing air into my lungs. It was exhausting. _I can hold my liquor. I'm Scottish._

But I could remember a feeling, of a time that I _did_ have too much to drink. But it wasn't anything like this. This was the living death. I was sealed in a compact cube and poured out of a barge and down a hill, rolling over and over. Or maybe it was a plane? Not a hill, either. Water. Not the _Beinn Nibheis,_ either, but an ocean. It was dark, such a deep blue and nearly black. Maybe I drowned in it.

Maybe this was an afterlife, of sorts, all the pain registering at one hundred on a scale that should only go to ten. Part of me wondered if I was wrong, there was a god, and I was being punished and tortured. Up until now I didn't think there was such a thing. But I had to be dead, didn't I? What else would explain the lack of logical cause and effect? There was a bloody light going on and off and making me want to blink, but I can't blink if I don't have eyes.

I was on a mountain with my mum, or maybe I was just remembering the mountain. Now I am strapped down on a cold block and everything turns over, and over, and over. I must have been put into a dryer. I wanted to die and reincarnate as a monkey, but I am beginning to think I came back as a sock.

At least I could be a plaid sock, something to preserve who I was once. But even so, plaid is not the same as a tartan. Most people don't realize that. You can't just wear plaid and think you look Scottish.

I find myself twitching out of pure fear and a sudden, gold rush of adrenaline. Shadows fly into my vision like animated puppets, jerking on marionette strings and pulling out scissors to cut me open with. They are disjointed, and jerky, made of a hundred photographs stringed together instead of the modern computer graphics. They move and bump, fleshless skeletons on parade.

I am terrified. The sounds I hear don't make any sense, but it is _so loud_ that it hurts. It makes me think the puppets are shoving the scissors into my ears, stabbing in, _and out,_ in, _and out._ I die after each one, and come back for a second. The shrill beeping increased and there was pressure on my nose and mouth, smothering me.

 _Please make it stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop._

I could feel the burn of salt in my eyes and on my cheeks. My body was shaking, but only on the inside. They couldn't tell I was moving, but there was a marathon. I could put a word to it now- a migraine, I think. I couldn't see any puppets or scissors, but it was so _vivid._ A hallucination, perhaps. But outside of myself, it's all just a rock, steady and reliable. Dead weight and nothing moves. Strapped down and contained like a lab rat, peacefully accepting all experimentation, but everything is tumultuous under my ribs.

Cement, heavy and color of slate, bearing my looks, my face, my unconsciousness. Give myself back, I asked, I want to be back in my own head. But my head didn't agree, my brain was firing up and making all the wrong signals, little nerve endings shot to hell and sparking like a downed power line after a rough winter.

"Come on, kid. Wake up."

I am nowhere, but I might have my eyes back. I could make them flicker like lights. _Em bloody ewake y'loud n' obnox'ous lhettel bastard..._ My brain flipped a switch into angry brogue, like an uncle or two on my absent father's side. The dialect was still considered English by everyone except those who spoke it.

"Welcome back, Leopold."

No one but my mum calls me that. Bloody hell. I am thirteen years old and asking for advanced calculus 2, only to be told that it doesn't exist at my school. I can't hear any of this, I am a mute. I can only watch and wonder.

"Stay calm, everything is going to be all right. You're in the hospital."

 _Th'fookis thet?_

"Stay with us, Leopold. You were in a coma, but you're going to be all right. This is a secure location."

 _Ken y' joost shut up f'r one menet? I kin't breathe..._

"Take some deep breaths for me."

My throat is so raw that I might spit blood. I can't. I might disturb the snow.

Red on white. A red skull symbol splashed like violence over a white wall.

 _Seck, seck, seck, aell over m'self. Derty wat'r._

I couldn't figure out if I was here, or now. Present and past. Said versus says. There's only IT, and IT is bloody confusing. This existence thing.

The tunnel vision was increasing, the white was being cleansed into something resembling reality. There was a ceiling, and lights. And then something _clicked,_ and it made just a little sense. Of course, I have been unconscious before. I must have fallen! Or hit the head... It's not like that's never happened! Sarcasm intended! Nothing that a little ice on the back of the head wouldn't cure.

But I was so cold, it had to be all over. The blankets over my legs did little to provide warmth. The elastic on my oxygen mask was too tight, and my head pounded. It was the worst, throbbing headache I think I've ever had. My arm was in a thick cast and strapped down, numbed just enough for the break to feel like a bad bruising instead.

My thoughts had been scrambled in present tense and past tense. I didn't know what was what, where was what. _Gimme ate legs of it, I fot my mates n' I were off to see th' wezzerd, Ee kin't jest go off on thet train whenet ain't goin'._

Nonsense, what utter nonsense.

Am I crazy?

:::

My vision was clearer, and I could see the room. It was anticlimactic. For it was, in fact, a hospital room. Full of monitors, people in white coats, the usual. Nothing too exciting except for the fact that I could accept what I was seeing as fact. There was nothing that suggested a hallucination, but I was still disoriented, like waking up from a long nap that I hadn't meant to take.

They removed the face mask and splashed a penlight at my face. I shut my eyes and twisted away.

"Sensitivity to light..."

I had a _headache,_ didn't they know that? My throat was dry and my mouth tasted like a sewer. Everything felt so thick and confusing that I couldn't tell them what I wanted. _Help me 'r kehll me._

"Get him some water," said the doctor. I wanted to say thank-you. Yes! That's what I wanted! Water!

I had to have help. Someone was holding the back of my head and holding a cup up to my mouth. The first swallow hurt so bad that I nearly just coughed everything back out. But I sucked down another sip, then another. It was balmy and comforting.

"What is your name?"

 _Ya bloody will know what m'name is, I h'ard y' sayet..._

"Leopold Fitz."

My voice hurts like hell.

My name, my age. What year is it, am I in any pain. I'm in a hell of a lot of pain no thanks to you bloody lot.

"Who is the president?"

"Is it Hydra?" I asked, and they chuckled, but I meant it. This is serious. I couldn't remember the name of the president, only the name of the Queen. That's not my fault.

"Is she alive?" I asked.

"Who?" asked the doctor.

I blinked.

Who.

Jemma, of course.

 _Who._

 _What a silly question._

My mouth opened but no sound came out. I know her name as well as my own. But the name does not fall out of my tongue. There is only a space bar... _click._ Emptiness.

Moving on to the next paragraph.

"Is she alive?" I repeated, tears streaming heavily down my face, which felt as sore as if I had walked into a wall.

"You came in with Agent Simmons, is that to whom you are referring?"

"Yes, yes!" But I felt as if I was falling asleep. _Don't._ "She's alive?"

"Yes. She's perfectly fine. You saved her life."

"I need to see her now."

"She has been called and told that you're awake. But you can only see her if you stay calm and still. Your brain has been through a trauma."

"I'll stay calm and still _if_ I can see her."

The doctor wanted to try and distract me. "How much do you remember?"

"I..." Space bar.

Blank.

...Empty...

I started crying again. _Ward tried t'kehllos...I doon' rememb'r how we got out'te th' boax; bet I kin swim, I must've swam..._

"It's okay. Don't exhaust yourself."

"I'm... already exhausted," I barked angrily.

"That is to be expected. You were in a coma for nearly six days."

"Six."

 _Rense, recycle, rehpeet..._

 _Six. Sex. Six. Six what? Six hours? What ded 'e say?_

"Your brain was deprived of oxygen for over three minutes. Agent Simmons pulled you to the surface."

 _I told her I love'd ...hehr...but..._

"I want to talk to her."

"Don't try to get up."

"But I need to leave."

"No, you don't-can I get some help, over here?"

"LET ME UP, Y'BASTARD-"

"Oh no, you don't. Settle down."

There was pressure on my broken arm. Accidental, of course, but I screamed. Then it was soft and warm again, and then I could see a face at the window...

Jemma! Finally! About bloody time you showed up! I need you to convince them I am perfectly able to get out of bed at this point in time.

She looked horrified, and I wondered what I did to deserve such disappointment.

Click.

Empty space.

Snowcaps.

The mountains really are beautiful this time of year.

:::

I could hear the clock ticking.

"Hullo, Fitz."

It's was a different day than before, because the time changed and Jemma was wearing something different. A black and white sweater that I recognized, oddly. Recognizing is a hard sensation. I am giving my best effort.

My throat was dry again, but Jemma realized that. She hit the button on the bed. _Vrrrrrrrrrrrr..._ I sat up, but only just enough. The room wasn't spinning as badly as before. It rocked, but not enough to make me fall out of bed. They should really do something about the stability of this room. How do they expect anyone to recover if it moves around?

She handed me a cup of water and I could drink it by myself. But my hand shook and my arm grew tired. When I set it back down on the table beside the bed, my wrist dropped to the blankets again like a dead thing, no longer functioning.

"Jemma," I said.

"Fitz," she replied, cheerfully. Her smile was incredibly beautiful but too worried for my taste.

"What's wrong with me," I started to cry again. I seemed to do that a lot. But no one seemed to notice other than myself. Perhaps it was involuntary and they knew it but I didn't. A symptom, nothing more.

"You're going to be all right, Fitz. It's all right." Her hand was warm and wrapped delicately around my cold one.

"Stop that," I said. "That's not what I mean."

"Don't exert yourself, Fitz."

"I _will._ T-t-t-tell me what happened, ple...please?"

Jemma's dark eyes widened in a way that could not be helped; she was a dedicated slave to science. It ran through her veins instead of blood. She could pretend to use a doctor's list of proper things to say, and risk sounding like a very depressed greeting card. But she could explain to me what was going on, and she would enjoy saying the words, if not the reason for saying them.

"Hypoxia. Your brain was deprived of oxygen for too long. You weren't breathing," Jemma's voice shook and she was crying slightly too. "But your heart was still beating. It is highly controversial... what we did... how we brought you back. It has been done successfully a few times by desperate individuals but doctors still do not consider it a proven method of resuscitation..."

"No more than… Cull… Cull…

"Coulson?"

"His return?" I asked.

"No. Not like that. Director Fury and I..."

"What?"

"Director Fury. He isn't dead."

...emp...

ty.

empty...

 _What._

"What?"

"He heard our signal. It worked. Someone was listening out there, and we were saved."

"How?"

"Helicopter."

"Okay," I said, trying to take this in. "Who?"

"Director Fury," Jemma said, her eyebrows moving downwards worriedly. "In a helicopter."

"Oh."

"There was a canister of oxygen on the helicopter-for emergencies, pressurized for whatever scenario you can dream of, except for anything medical related, naturally-I attached it to a facemask from the aid kit and..." Jemma paused. Sober and serious. "It was about six hundred percent oxygen. For all intents and purposes, you were dead... but it made you breathe again." Her hand was very warm and she squeezed. I had forgotten I was holding her hand, and it made me twitch ever so slightly. "Pure oxygen is... beyond toxic. It shouldn't have worked." Jemma suddenly looked as tired as I felt. She lay her forehead down on the blankets, and I put my hand on top of her head.

"Thanks," I whispered.

She didn't answer.

"Now what?" I asked.

She lifted her head. "You were in a coma for six days. You started to wake up several times."

"I remember having a seizure."

"You never had a seizure."

"And puppets."

Jemma smiled slightly. "That's not so bad."

"They had scissors."

She frowned. "How repulsive."

"I thought..." I didn't know what I thought.

"Do you remember anything from the last six days? Other than dreaming you had a seizure and that there were puppets with scissors?"

Empty.

"Nothing else," I replied. "There's nothing."

"Perhaps it's for the best," Jemma said, and coming from anyone else, it would have sounded patronizing. Not from her.

"Mhm," I responded. "Did we find the... the... I mean we found it, but we were-y'know, ejected and... but did we..." I know what I am asking. I know.

"The Bus?" Jemma offered.

"Did we find it?" I asked eagerly.

"After we were ejected from it? Yes, _yes,_ we did. We recovered it. It's back in our possession now."

"And did we... um... did _he..._ he had it and then we got it back... did he, _damn it..._ " My fingers tapped the blankets agitatedly. "He... he..." I snapped my fingers.

The name.

Give me the damn name, I wanted to shout at my brain, but nothing was listening. Not even myself.

Someone please, answer me.

I am being ignored by my own mouth and I am trembling to figure out why.

Jemma is nearly standing. She thinks I'm suddenly losing consciousness again.

I'm not, I'm just thinking.

 _Thenkin ofa word._

"Garret?" Jemma declared suddenly. "Are you asking me what happened to Garret?"

She was my supplier. Substituting information for the words that wouldn't come out. But that's fine, it's just because I'm tired. When I'm out, that won't happen anymore. It's just the coma thing. Drugs keeping me alive and slowly leaving my system. Words into words and words come out and words won't and then she words them for me...

I'm fine.

"YES!" I said quickly.

"He's been stopped."

I'm fine. "How?"

"He's been killed," Jemma said, with relief.

"I'm," I said.

Empty.

Still empty, blank paper. Sheet of white.

"I'm fine," I said.

"I know," Jemma said softly, but she didn't believe me.

The doctors made her leave after she sat with me for an hour. I tried to go with her. When they said no, I waited. Then I tried to follow. They sedated me, sat with me, tried to talk. They saw me as a level 5 weapons analyst and not a genius. They baby-talked me.

You're a little baby, they seemed to say, we'll have to help you learn how to walk.

 _bloody'ell, I know hoaw to walk..._

I had to try and explain, I know _words._ You don't have to talk down to me. Use the big words. I know them. I am an inventor. An engineer. I know things.

Say the words.

The words I need.

I can repeat them.

I promise.

I'm fine.

I'll remember those things later, when I'm awake again. _Did y'know in th' bocket there's glass'n rhymin' w' knot..._ More nonsense, and a dream, and brain functioning to the maximum degree trying to arrange sentences in the proper order.

:::

Another day.

"Hi, Fitz," this time it was Skye. "How's it going in here?"

"Where are we? Actually?"

"It's called _the Playground_... it's a SHIELD bunker. Hydra doesn't know about this one."

"Where is everyone?"

"Everyone is..." Skye paused. "We're all here, and we're okay."

"Ward?"

Skye shrugged. "Garret is dead, so in some capacity, Ward is free." She added this with the most sarcastic, bitter tone she could muster. "But he is in custody."

"Shipped off to the... the..." I paused.

 _Thes cehling is white-_

 _shut UP._

"The..."

"The Fridge?"

"The other one."

Nothing.

"The, uh... the..."

 _Kin't y' help me out lik' Jemma kin I jest need the damn word, et's only one._

"The..." I repeated. "The... uh..."

It was paining Skye to try and let me figure it out on my own. "The Hub," she provided.

"The Hub," I sighed, exhausted.

Skye's face was unreadable.

"When can I leave?" I asked. "I have research from the dwarfs to download and cateh... cateh... cat... cate... categorize."

 _Thes esn't hard what is y'r bloody problem jest say the damn words..._

"As soon as you've completed physical therapy," Skye said.

"I don't want to do that," I exclaimed.

"Fitz, it's mandatory."

"It's not like I can't walk. I remember how to do that. It's not... it's not... it's not... it's not... it's not..."

"Fitz..."

"I'm fine," I said shortly.

:::

* * *

:::

 **Diagnosis**

:::

* * *

:::

I sleep too much. I don't understand why at times, it seems I'm tired for no reason. Other times, I realize that the coma made me lose a lot of body mass and it exhausts me and physical therapy will help me get back in the game but luckily I didn't forget how to walk or anything, I just have to get out of bed and -

I sleep too much. I don't understand why at times, it seems I'm tired for no reason.

Why am I so tired?

I finally got out of bed, and my head swam. I developed a

Developed...

Developed

 _shaking._

 _tremble._

 _If Jemma were here she'd say-_

"Tic."

Involuntary motor tic to be exact, thank-you. Usually they occur in the eyes or face, but in my case I made good use of it in my hand, a slight twitching of my fingers to indicate I was struggling to remember a word, due to

to...

"You need to stop trying to get out of bed. Lay down."

"Can't you see I'm _fine?"_ I asked. My legs swung over the edge of the bed, toes simply begging to touch down on the floor. "Just let me try standing. You can't let me try that tiny little thing?"

"You've suffered significant brain damage," said the nurse.

I felt as if someone had shoved a vacuum down my

my

esophuh...

esophuh...

throat.

Esophagus.

"What do you mean?" I whispered. "I was just hit a little on the head, Jemma pulled me up. I'm fine."

The nurse stared at me. "I am going to have to explain this to you again."

"Again?"

"You've forgotten," she said, gently, "You suffered brain damage from hypoxia. There is no telling how significant that damage is or if it is long term. As of now, it is affecting some of your motor skills and equilibrium. We may be looking at moderate or severe aphasia."

"But how can I just... it's all still in _here,"_ I pointed a finger to my forehead and shoved my finger against my temple, nearly knocking myself out by hitting a pressure point. "I haven't _forgotten things."_

"Aphasia affects your ability to name things, for one," said the nurse. "You haven't forgotten them. It's just a little harder to get the word out of your brain and into the air."

"You don't have to talk down to me."

"I'm going to need you to get back into bed."

I complied mildly. And waited till she turned her back, then I hit the ground, not running, just moving quickly, opening the door, and finding a concerned group of certain team of agents and they all…

I wasn't leaving the bed, imagining my escape. It would be damn hilarious, me, in a white hospital gown, running through a hall looking for my team...

"Lay down, Agent Fitz. Please."

I complied and...

and...

I complied.

And then I slept again, into a ravaging sleep just as stressful and tick-tocking as the chugging cogs of a mind awake. Racing forward at four hundred percent.

Is this what all sleep is going to feel like from now on? Just slipping back into a clockwork coma? It's a flesh eating fog, creeplingly grabbingly sucklingly pulling you into a state of mind that you can only try to get out of. I'm stuck in a scream-activated system when I can only manage a whisper.

Some symptoms of aphasia... making up words to replace the ones that you can't get out from behind your teeth.

Some symptoms of Agent Fitz... not wanting to ever, ever do this out loud. I can manage in my own head, thanks. But I cannot imagine, not even for a second, the embarrassment I would feel if I uttered some nonsense like "Oh, it's a part of the diddlyhammer in the nookawhatsit" in front of Coulson, or Simmons, or the others.

I wouldn't be able to take it. Just the thought of it is enough to make my ears feel warm.

 _Th'rs always th' option of joost stayin' in th' land of SHUHTtheFOOHKUP._

Please stop, I'm trying.

 _W'll etes a viable route f'r y'to never speak agin' an' sev y'rself th' shem..._

Stop, just stop talking.

What if I develop schizophrenia? My innermost conscience has always been some form or another of my own voice, albeit with a thicker brogue... but if I start telling my own mind to shut up and it _doesn't listen?_ Isn't that the very definition of having a voice in your head?

I can't even go there, I can't even think it.

I'd rather be sleeping.

I slept inside a box, gray and milky. My arm hurt, sharp and agonizing. I found myself searching the floor for the first aid kit, pulling a makeshift sling out of the supplies. I don't even remember waking up and realizing that I was crawling around. Every jarring of my knees against the floor of the pod sent a scream riveting through my blood and up into my arm. I sat limply against the wall, a broken arm for one and a sling in one hand. Useless without setting the bone.

I knew how to do that.

But the question is whether I could do it to myself.

And I didn't want to wake Simmons. She was so peaceful and lovely, lying there. _Bloody hell,_ I had forgotten. This wasn't naptime. She was unconscious. We had fallen out of a plane and somehow survived to the bottom of the ocean.

I couldn't put it off, it had to be done. I put the sling in my mouth, biting hard into the scratchy fabric. I put my hand over my broken arm, finding the spot where it was throbbing in red beats of heavy bass, a music of the devil incarnate.

 _One_

 _two_

 _three_

Set.

 _SNAP._

The sling in my mouth did nothing to muffle the scream. I almost passed out. Black dots swim swam darting back and forth forth and back swim swam _oh good lorrd thes'es gettin' redeculus_ I can't faint now I just got the hard part done

watching the colors grow bigger and smaller

till I blinked them away, ignoring the sensation of green sickness threatening to complicate things.

I wasn't going to pass out. I was going to, carefully, put the sling on. Like so. String it around my neck and... damn it... try not to move...

Then I calculated. And the more escape routes I came up with, the more my own expertise betrayed me. For every possibility, there was physics. Everything sounded good in theory. The actual result would be disastrous. And it wouldn't have resulted in getting out safely.

Then when Jemma awoke, I felt safe again.

If anyone asks me what true love is, I will respond with the first law of thermodynamics.

Her science is the way I would've tried to read her poetry if I was different kind of nerd.

Does this make any sense to you at all?

Then I realized I would need to die for her to live. I was so frightened of death, the kind of fear that remains deep inside, seizing up your lungs and pressing too close to your heart. I can talk about coming back as a monkey all I want but that won't change the fact that she'll go on and I won't.

But love, maybe, doesn't... or can't... surpass time and space like everyone says it can. Love's strength is just being able to do what needs to be done. She seems to think we cannot be created, nor destroyed. That's the first law of thermodynamics. But the point is; I _can_ be destroyed, easily. But I can save her from the same fate.

 _Love is life, and if I love her... she lives._

 _It's so simple._

I remember the decision. I do not remember hitting the explosive. I do not remember her sobs, her kiss, her scream. I only say it now because I can see those images as I dream. When they come back, I ask, and she confirms. I do not remember it but my mind is telling me that it happened. It's not the same as retaining a piece of the past, for the past is far less subjective. Everything in my head is telling me that the conversation we had ended far differently. Perhaps she declared her reciprocated love for me. And she kissed my lips instead of my face.

I know I did hit the switch for the explosive. I know that the water hit me instantly, the world's fastest roller coaster, the pressure of speed square in the chest. A light gray gently waving suddenly became a black wall, rushing at me as quickly as the ground obeys someone who falls from a bridge. Or jumps.

Then I was being smothered, something like an icy fist forcing its way into my mouth and reaching down for my lungs greedily, a repo opera in blue. My brain became cotton and the fight in my limbs flitted away. I was high on the absence of oxygen.

"Fitz."

And then, I know Simmons swam slowly in order to keep a good grip around my waist. Even if she ran out of oxygen the last thirty five feet and had to desperately claw her way to the surface before she, too, passed out underwater.

" _Fitz."_

And then we were saved! Like a storybook! A hero long thought to be dead, reaching down from the giant whirly bird in the sky. In the middle of the ocean, no less. Who would think.

"FITZ!"

I was coughing in the same way that someone coughs up a mouthful of water after getting pushed by an overzealous friend into a pool. And I was awake now, shaking.

"For heaven's sake,Fitz," Jemma said, her voice strained. "My goodness. That must have been some dream. You were thrashing around like a lunatic."

"There's something wrong with me," I said, sitting up and putting my hands to my head, trying to contain all of it in one place before it burst and splattered the gray matter of my brains and memories against the far wall.

"Should I fetch the nurse?" Jemma asked.

"No," I said quickly. "They're in... insu... in... em... insu..."

"Insufferable?"

"Aye, that's the one," brogue escaping. Bite tongue. "Talkin' to me like I'm a child. It's bloody irri..." I groaned with frustration. "I wrote it down. Earlier today." I grabbed a notepad on the fold up tray and flipped three pages back. "Aphasia," I read out loud.

"Ah," Jemma said knowingly.

"They told you already."

"Yes," Jemma admitted. "But you're so _lucky,_ Fitz! You could have been trapped in a coma forever! You could have been awoken with severe brain deterioration and-and-could only manage to communicate with a blink twice for yes and once for no. Fitz, you could have died... and here you are! Sitting up and talking like you always have!"

"H-h-hardly talking. And not always."

"You must give yourself some credit."

"Jemma, I can hardly say what I need to say," I argued. "Don't you find it-it-it's almost like... my job is to be able... to do something..." I paused. "I can't do it the way I could before, do you see?"

"Well, _different_ isn't so bad," Jemma smiled.

"It's no' jest different, I'm _damaged,"_ I said.

"Now you listen to me, Leo Fitz," Jemma said sternly. "You're not damaged. Even if you were, damaged isn't _broken._ You can't blame yourself for a little trouble with big words. If you want to blame anyone, blame Ward!" she said his name with a small tremble of fear, just in the echo. "The fantastic thing is that you can still work. Not right away, but eventually. You didn't lose your knowledge. You might just... have a little trouble explaining your genius from now on. In fact, that's not so bad. Most scientists aren't understood anyhow, in fact you might have more in common with the best and the brightest that Shield has ever produced..."

"Do you think that makes me FEEL better?" I asked dubiously. "Now I'm lumped with the rest of the... the... _horde_ that can't talk their way out of a card... card... box because their social skills were left behind when they tried to take Advanced Calc... calc... calc... em... ugh. Calc..."

"Calculus?"

"Calculus...amongst children learning long division!"

"Fitz!" Jemma wasn't just smiling, she was beaming. She reached out and took my hand. "That was lovely! Listen to you! You're already improving."

"It's only because you're here," I said gloomily. "It's still true, though. I don't want to be like other scientists. I want to go back to the way I was when I could..." As suddenly as thoughts come, they die. The lifespan of a moth too close to a candle flame. Soon they catch, pop, and crackle till they're a tiny piece of unidentifiable charcoal.

It had already died.

"The way I..." I tried again. _Not agin... Sh' was right, I WAS doin' well. F'r a mom'nt. thenet was goene..._

"The way... I..." I clutched my head in my hands. _Rock._ Think of it. _Rock._ Used to... _Back, forth._ I didn't even know I was wishing out loud, or was it admitting failure? " _I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't..."_

"Fitz, shhhhh, it's all right," Jemma stood beside the bed and wrapped her arms around me. I still shook my head, muttering like a whisper in a street, my hands over my ears. Trying to hush the roaring that was angry and repeating the right words for me to say over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and oadnvoer and over and voerf anvd over and voer aov e r and over and voer adnover orverand vero nda and over…

"What's wrong with me?" I whispered. Even my mind flips my letters around. I don't have to say them wrong, or write them incorrectly. They're already wrong in my head.

"There's nothing wrong with you," Jemma said quietly, holding me tightly.

:::

* * *

:::

 **Checkmate**

:::

* * *

:::

 _If you feel you aren't being heard, maybe it because the right ones aren't listening yet._

:::

I get to wear real clothes today. A pair of black sweatpants and a navy blue t-shirt, courtesy of Skye. God bless 'er for finding _one_ thing that could improve this is little to do that, you know. But she found something. She's resourceful that way, that one.

"Please give me good news," I said.

Skye looked thoughtful. "I overheard the nurses talking about you."

"What did they say?"

"You'll find that the gaps and memory lapses will continue to improve. After being in a coma, it's difficult to remember things... in a way your brain is compensating for making everything else work, that short term memory isn't a priority. You may find yourself thinking back to before you and Simmons were trapped, and wondering why you're in a hospital. These things will come and go. Within a few days, you'll find yourself remembering clearly what happened yesterday, and within a few weeks, you can recount entire conversations or remember a book that you are reading. See?"

"Good news," I whispered. "But it's not enough for me to remember a book, Skye. I need to remember _everythin'._ If I'm going to work again. I need my degrees...training. I can't forget... anything."

"Simmons will help you, she always does."

She's been filling in the gaps. A word. Here, and there. When I didn't have it, she tried. But what if she couldn't always interpret for me? What happened if she failed? Where would that leave me?

The door opened, and there was a therapist.

The therapist introduced himself

Maybe he said Mr. Thomas

Maybe he said Bob

I don't remember

"You're looking better today," said the therapist. I guess he's seen me before? But I don't remember that. Maybe this is our second time meeting up. Maybe he was in this very room earlier today.

I don't remember

 _I am properly dressed for a jaunt outside of this room if I so please. If I promise to be good, will you let me go?_

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, this time with permission. The second my weight began to bear towards the floor, I felt a hand around my elbow.

"Can't I jest try et by myself?" I asked, jerking my arm away. The more upset I got, the more the accent leaked out. If only my words could come as easily as the tone and influx of the pitch and pronunciation around them?

The nurse responded coolly, as usual. "You can put up my presence, or I can get you a walker. Your choice."

I stared at her, offended. "A _walker."_

This nurse _knew_ how to push my buttons. "Like a dodgy old man," she said lightly. "Or you can let me stand here and make sure you don't fall." Her hand hovered by my elbow but she didn't move to hold it again. I shrugged and looked away from her, letting my feet slide to the floor. The therapist stood about five feet away, near the window. He was fortyish, balding, typing something into his smart phone.

The bed still bore most of my weight as I leaned on it, but I was standing. Surprisingly easily. My legs were tired and weak, as if I had been on a few hikes with Mum on a snowcapped mountain.

Suddenly homesick, I took a step forward, and another.

"Well done, keep it slow," said the therapist, glancing up from his phone. I realized this is what note-taking looked like when one was in a hurry.

"Has enyone called m' mum?" I asked.

"Your mother?" the nurse asked. She seemed surprised.

"I do 'ave one, y' know."

"I don't doubt that," said the nurse.

"Why don't we focus on one battle at a time?" asked the therapist.

"You're one t' talk 'bout focus," I snapped, taking another step towards him. "Focus on one bloody battle at a time! If y'took one sper' minit to fex my broken-up bren of mine instead of textin' like an arse..."

The therapist remained entirely cool and collected. He slipped his phone into his pocket. "I would apologize for being unprofessional, but it was intentional."

I stood there, swaying slightly, the nurse just waiting for me to make her day a little harder.

"I knew that if I stood here and stared at you like a spectator, you would feel embarrassed. You've never had physical therapy before, so I was giving you a little privacy. Now, how are you doing there? You've been standing for... oh... forty-five seconds now."

"I'm tired," I said shortly. _An' y'r werds ar' bleedin' out all ov'r the plece..._ "Did anyone tell my mum that I... that I was... em..." I snapped my fingers once.

The therapist stared at me. _Simmons_ would have helped me out.

"Em..."

Staring. _Simmons_ would have helped me by now.

Why won't he take his damn eyes and put them back on his phone?

"hurt...?" I finished, voice nearly choking up on the word.

The therapist looked over at the nurse. I followed his gaze. "No," admitted the nurse. "We... informed your team..."

"WORK," I snapped. "Thes'es work. Dosn't my shield file 'ave a lest of emergency contacts? Come _on._ It's my mum. She should know I'm okay, she would'a seen the news about... about..."

I looked again at the therapist made of stone. Neither he, nor the nurse, were half as helpful as Simmons.

"About, the, em... en th' news... the em..." _snap, snap._ "Hydra... about Hydra."

"The words will come to you," said the therapist. "You just have to be patient with yourself. The next time you can't seem to say the word that you want, just take a deep breath. Try moving on to the nest part of the sentence without the word. Or just pause, and think for a moment. It may feel like it is taking forever to you, but to everyone else, it's just a brief pause. Finding the 'right' word is," he tried to smile, "Entirely overrated."

"NOT IN MY BUSINESS," I said far too loudly. "Not EN THES BESSINESS- EN THES BESSINESS TH' RIGH' WERD KIN MEAN EVRY'THING- D'YA UNDERSTAND?"

"But you are not at work right now," said the therapist. "You're just Leo Fitz, spending a little time with me, having a conversation. Finding the right word is not a matter of life and death."

"BUT ET COULD BE!" I nearly flung myself at him. "If I can't say the righ' word in a matter of life or death, et could be their deaths..."

"You won't have to worry about that now," said the therapist.

"What do y' mean?"

"We are taking steps. Small steps. Today, those are _literal_ steps out of bed. A week from now, it might be metaphorical steps... steps back into regular routines. You don't have to worry about life and death in dangerous work situations until it's the right time."

"They don't want me back in th' field," I realized out loud. "I'm broken and they don't want me."

"There will be all kinds of negativity pulling at you from different directions," the therapist said. "The best thing you can do for yourself is not be the source. Let the storms come; but _you,_ you are not allowed to be down on yourself. Repeat after me... _one step at a time."_

"Did y' get your degree from... from..."

 _A Desne' movie!_

 _A DISNEY MOVIE!_

 _SAY IT!_

 _SAY IT, DAMN IT._

 _EHT'S A BREELLIENT ZENGER!_

"From..."

 _Say it._

He waited.

A brilliant zinger and I couldn't even use it.

"Where the bloody 'ell did y' get your degree?" I barked, instead. "These _pep talks_ are redeculous!" I stepped for him again at a wobbly pace, and this time he raised his hands slightly. What the efff? To catch me if I fell? Or was 'e afraid I was gonna hit em? I felt a hand around my elbow again, and I wrenched my arm violently away. "JEST STOP IT. I'M JEST MOVIN' AROUND LIKE 'E BLOODY TOLD ME TO."

And just like that, our session was over. Ended too quickly, or just in time, I don't know. Either way, I was _done. Finite._ My mind completely checked out, let loose like a kite with a broken string.

The mind games were getting stronger. Sometimes I thought I was awake, but I was actually asleep and dreaming... safe and sound in a bed that I was rapidly growing tired of, sometimes moving towards the door...

...a gray square in a white wall, nothing special.

I'm so tired.

 _What is wrong with me? Why am I being so rude? I'm never like this._

Why ar' these werds comin' out of my mouth like this.

 _I don't just lose it without good reason. Even when I do lose it I take it out on inanimate objects... never people. Right? Last time I lost my temper I was worried about Ward being Hydra... Coulson talked me out of it before I went too far. I just... reacted. Perhaps now I am overreacting. Aren't I just overreacting to something?_

 _What am I overreacting to?_

Oh god

why are they staring at me like that

who are you people

where am I?

...the space between asleep and awake is just a shade drawn over a window. It's dark but you can always pull it back and look outside.

 _Where the f' did that come from?_

I can pull it back and go outside now; nothing stopping me-the last thing I remember-the halls. On the bus. Hydra is after us and I know them I can smell them if they hurt Jemma I don't know I don't know I don't know

we're running and they're stunned that we're escaping because we're fast but this really doesn't look like the bus so I don't know what's happening only that I need to tell my mum something; they forgot to tell her, so it's obviously my responsibility, I need to call her and say MUM I'M NOT DEAD

I'M NOT DEAD

Ward... please don't hurt us. We're your friends.

I'm standing in the middle of a giant chessboard. The marble pieces are man-sized and the color of shadows. They shift from square to square, some of them cracking and toppling towards me. I can only run as fast as I can, trying to dodge the figures.

 _I must be hallucinating._

I knew had to get to the end of the board... otherwise...

One of the chess pieces leans in closely to my face. It's the bishop, bearing a face similar to that of a red skull with lifeless holes for eyes. It grinned, a smile full of bloody teeth. The maw parted and whispered one word to me.

 _Schachmatt._

"Fitz."

 _What._

"Fitz, everything is going to be all right."

 _Where am I?_

I have to force myself to look at my surroundings.

There's a second-story ledge around the docking bay. A balcony, overlooking at a familiar sight... the bus. The plane is returned to a nearly pristine condition, with the SHIELD symbol looking... well, like a SHIELD symbol. The angular eagle, a proud profile with slightly American set of stripes borne out of the wings and tail within a circle.

Maybe they should paint over it. Give it a few more heads.

I am looking down at it from upstairs. Upstairs... upstairs WHERE?

Then I'm facing forward, and there are two people standing in front of me. Each have their hands up, defensively. One is Agent Coulson. The other is Agent May. I know them and I remember both of their names. There would be no snapping to get the right word out.

There's something in my hand. A rod. Something broken, a length of metal I might have picked up on the ground. But I don't know why it is in my hand, or why I am clenching it in a white-knuckled fist. Or why my other arm is in a cast. Why is my arm in a cast?

"Fitz," came that same voice again. It was Coulson. He held out a hand. "Put the pipe down."

I'm so confused.

I am breathing too hard, as if I just ran for miles and miles. I _did_ run. I remember running and shoving my way through... things. I thought it was chess pieces... maybe it was people?

"Put the pipe down, Fitz. We know you don't want to hurt anyone." May was saying.

"How," I managed. "What's happening?" I gripped the pipe tighter. "How did I get here?"

"You punched your therapist and ran away," Coulson said, not bothering to spin it any other way.

"Who?" I know I had a therapist. I knew I had been unconscious. I knew these things, and yet I _knew_ that it was only a few short hours ago that Jemma and I were running from Hydra.

"A physical therapist. His name Thomas. You've met a few times."

"I know, I know, I know," I said, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to make him stop talking just by making an excruciating face as I tried to remember a therapist. The pipe twitched in my hand as if I really, really, wanted to use it. "Why..." I said slowly, "Why can't I remember why? I know, I know, I _know_ I hit someone... I know I ran-but how did Simmons and I get here? What about the Hydra agents?"

May looked as if she had suddenly remembered an answer from her field exams at the ops academy. "What's the last thing you remember?" She was not relaxing her kick-arse poise.

"Simmons and I. Running from Garrett. On the bus," I looked over the railing again at the bus, and then back at them. "If I'm up _here..._ and the bus is down _there..._ where's Ward?"

"Fitz, you're confused, and you have a lot of questions," May said. "Just let me take this pipe and we'll go downstairs and tell you everything."

"I'm not goin' nowhere with you!" I didn't know how to use it effectively, but I swung the pipe outward in an arc anyhow. "WHAT AM I DOING HERE?" I cried. "Answer that an' I'll put thes down."

May stepped forward, but Coulson stopped her with a hand. "You were rescued. And brought here. But you blacked out, and now you're awake again."

"How do I know thes esen't jest anuther hallucination?" I demanded. "You coul' all be Hydra... and..." I held out the pipe, as the weapon I did not know how to use. "Where's Jemma?"

"She's fine," May answered.

"But where is she?"

"On her way," Coulson replied. "Fitz, I need to ask you one more time. Put the pipe down."

"Or what?" I asked. "You'll shoot me?"

Coulson held up both hands. "I am not pointing a gun at you, Fitz. I don't need to. You're disoriented, and confused, and I know you want answers. Put the pipe down, and I'll give you answers."

May's eyes narrowed. "Do as he says, Fitz."

"But..." I lost all sense of argument, of placement. "But..." I lowered the pipe, my arm suddenly tired. May darted in like a snake, grabbing my arm and knocking it against the railing. In my surprise I dropped the pipe and it clattered to my feet. Before I knew it, my arm was pulled behind my back and May was standing behind me. "Fitz," she said calmly, her voice buzzing like a fly right in my ear, "I need you to promise you're going to let us take you downstairs to see Simmons. Without running away."

 _I want to see Simmons._

"Okay," I said robotically. She let go of my arm. She hadn't pulled it back far enough to hurt. If it was a REAL Agent May, wouldn't she show no restraint? She doesn't draw the line between teammates or Hydra. If you're a threat, you're a threat. I was a threat, wasn't I? I was holding an old pipe!

"Are you the real Agent May?" I asked.

May's expression was unreadable. "Yes."

Coulson motioned me to walk with him. "Fitz, I need you to follow me. Can you do that?"

"Yeah," I responded slowly, taking a few steps. My legs felt weak and wobbly. I grabbed the railing to steady myself. My brain was screaming at me to be surprised and worried that I could hardly stand, but my muscle memory was telling me that this was the new normal. "I don' know if I... can..." the distance downstairs looked so, so long.

May looped my arm over her shoulders, partially supporting my weight.

"What are you doin'," I said in a rough voice. I hadn't had any water to drink in... years. Or maybe an hour. "I don't need help."

May didn't answer, she continued walking down the open balcony towards the stairs. We had gained an audience. There were several agents in the small crowd, maintenance and others I didn't know. They all pretended to be busy with something, but they were all watching in their own way. I recognized Skye and... that one fellow who had an eye for Simmons... Trip? Triplet?

They were staring. "Kin y' make 'em stop lookin' at me," I whispered to May.

Coulson looked over his shoulder at me. "Eyes on me, Agent Fitz," he commanded.

Eyes on Coulson.

I obeyed.

Just with my eyes.

The mind went elsewhere.

I was sitting back in my room. Hands folding and unfolding, unable to keep them from not moving. Nervous hands. I had to keep reminding myself why I was here. _I_ pulled a weapon off the floor and threatened to break the skull of anyone coming near me. _I_ punched my therapist and ran for it. This has been going on for some time... I didn't just wake up. I've been awake. In fact, I remembered eating cheerios for breakfast this morning. My brain was telling me that Hydra was crawling in and out like maggots in rotten wood, but they weren't here. And they weren't on my heels, waiting for me to fall.

I even remembered Skye handing me a blue t-shirt and saying she stole it out of an emergency supply. "I know it's not an argyle sweater, or a lab coat," she joked, "But I know it's better than a hospital gown."

So why, for god's sake, did I suddenly go so blind with forgetfulness and fear that my mind rewound back to the moments before Simmons and I got dropped in the ocean?

My hands kept fidgeting. I couldn't stop thinking, and yet forgetting to think about anything at all. Sometimes it was just a white landscape. Even snowfall doesn't make any sounds.

The door opened and Simmons walked into the room. I very nearly stood up, but May was standing very close to me. I got up halfway, hesitated, and dropped back into the chair. "Hey," I said, awkwardly.

"Hi, Fitz," Simmons said in her false cheerfulness. "You're looking better."

"Sit down, Agent Simmons," Coulson said without any of his usual sarcasm or general friendliness. "Fitz requested your presence after trying to brain a few people. Fitz, I promised I would answer your questions. I promised Simmons was safe. There she is. Now, we can talk." He softened, if only a little. "Don't forget, we're safe here." His eyes flickered to May, and May took a subtle step away from my side. "Whatever you'd like to know. I'll do my best to answer."

I wrung my hands. They were trying to twitch, and I had to hold them still. I got distracted, as if we were all old friends sitting on a back porch having a conversation, and a bee had flown too close to my ear. I batted at it, and hesitated, my arm in the air. I pulled it back down and held my hands tightly in my lap. There's no bees in here. _I look crezzy, they all thenk I'm crezzy... I act like it, I sound like it. I am lost._

"When you're ready," said Coulson. Maybe for the second time. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Waiting for me to ask.

I looked up at him. "I forgot what I wanted to ask."

"That's okay, I can wait," Coulson said.

Simmons sat beside me, silent. She, too, was trying not to wring her hands. She clenched them tightly in perfect steepled fingertip presses.

"So the... 'em..." I kept thinking about Simmon's hands. "Em..." _Damn._ "The 'em... bus. After we were dropped from it. I mean, after we were rescued. I was brought here and I was in... in..."

"A coma," offered Simmons helpfully. _No. No no no. Simmons. Not you too._

"Yeah," I said. "But no, that's not what..."

"A coma," repeated Simmons, raising an eyebrow. _You've never had trouble finishing my sentences before, why should they be wrong NOW when it actually counted?_

"No, no, no," I snapped, "I'm talking about the... the..."

"Unconsciousness?" Simmons suggested.

"Let him finish his thought," Coulson said in a very stern voice. Probably far more strictly than Simmons was used to. She looked like a kitten suddenly dunked in a pool, betrayed and unhappy.

"The _helicopter,_ is what I meant," I sighed with relief. Simmons had let out a breath simultaneously.

"I guess I just wanted to know... what exactly... if you could, mind the gaps..."

"Fill the gaps?" Simmons asked.

"Precisely," I said. _I thought y' lost your touch for a min' it there..._

Coulson gave Simmons a peculiar look. "The helicopter rushed you here. This is one of our... hidden locations not infiltrated by Hydra. We took you into the emergency unit and rushed to get you taken care of. You were in a coma for six days."

"I know, I remember that," I said, slowly. "I do. I think. I just... forgot."

"But it's all coming back to you now," Simmons added.

"No, not really," I tried to explain. It was hard. _Simmons, why do you keep getting it wrong? Where's our 'simpatico' working relationship? What changed?_

Simmons eyes were alight with curiosity as if I were bacteria in a petri dish. "Have you had flashbacks? Perhaps if they'd let me see your brain scans..."

"NO," I shouted, turning and looking into her eyes for the first time since... Really looked. Brown, a hint of blue. I think. Or blue with a hint of brown. They were dark, like deep waters. "That's _not_ what I'm tryin' to say, if y' could jest let me try to say one lehtell thing..."

"I'm sorry," Simmons said, a small glittering gathering in the corners of her eyes.

"You've never had trouble finishing my sentences before now," I snapped. "Why should they be wrong now when it _actually_ counts?" This was followed by my own mouth dropping open with surprise and disgust at myself. For the first time since waking up, my mouth obeyed my thoughts completely. I thought something, and it came out correct. I was almost ecstatic.

"I... I don't know, Fitz," Simmons whispered.

I hurt her. I regretted it instantly. But I couldn't apologize. _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please forgive me..._

The words wouldn't come out, now.

When it counted.

"Why don't you give us a moment," Coulson said to Simmons, kindly. Simmons put on a brave face. "I'll see you later, Fitz," she said politely, standing and walking quickly out of the room. I held out a hand as if to stop her, but the problem with gestures is that they are silent. I might as well get used to using them more.

"Jemma," I began, but the door already shut behind her. "I hurt her feelings," I said quietly.

"Perhaps," Agent Coulson took her chair. "She doesn't mean it, but she agitates you. She is accustom to a rapid fire communication. She'll have to remember she can't always know what you want to say."

" _Agitates_ ," I repeated gloomily. "But if she can't help me, who can?"

"You'll have to help yourself," Coulson looked like he'd been waiting to use that one for years.

"I'm sorry I lost my mind," I said, resting my forehead in my open palms.

"Don't apologize. I'm not waiting to hear you say sorry." Coulson replied. "I'm waiting to hear if you want to know anything else. We're not keeping anything from you, Fitz."

"Where's Ward?" I asked suddenly. It wasn't the question I intended, but I sure as hell wanted to know the answer to it now.

"We're not keeping anything from you, except for that," Coulson said, with his poker face. If he had said this a month ago and we were all on the bus having a great old time with adventures and Asgardians and alien technology... he would have said it with a smirk, citing his SHIELD level and security access. Simmons and I would coerce Skye into hacking into something to find where Ward was being held. We would get in trouble, but forgiven in the end. It would all turn out okay.

But those were the good old days. I couldn't exactly torture Coulson for answers, so I knew I wouldn't get any.

"Next question, then," I said. "What does _Schachmatt_ mean?"

Coulson and May looked at each other with a mystified expression.

"It's German," said Agent May. "It means _checkmate."_

I shuddered. "I thenk..." I said slowly, "I thenk I want to... get some sleep." _Eht's very cold._

Coulson looked slightly worried. "You don't want to at least try and finish physical therapy?"

"Tomorrow," I said hazily, getting up. I walked complacently back to my hospital bed (which wasn't horribly uncomfortable, now that I think about it) and sat down on it.

"Why do you ask?" May asked.

I shrugged. "Maybe I heard a Hydra agent say it. I don't know. They used to be, em... em..." _snap._ "Nots... nazis. Nazis. Maybe I heard Ward say it." I knew this wasn't true, and they both knew it too. But they couldn't figure out why I would lie about it. "Maybe I was hallucinating and I saw something say it."

"Something?" Coulson clarified.

"Right," I answered.

"Not someone?" May asked.

"No," I repeated, frustrated. "It was just... it was weird, all right? I couldn't describe it. Not to you two. Something. Lots of somethings. It was dark and I thought I was running from Hydra and... I'm sorry."

"Like I said, you don't have to apologize, but you _do_ have to follow through with physical therapy. Regularly. Beginning again tomorrow. Agent May will be supervising."

I glanced at Agent May, but her face was impossible to read.

"Okay," I agreed.

"Get some rest," Coulson said. "We'll see you tomorrow." He and Agent May did their special nod and left through the door, side by side. Partners and the best of friends, communicating without the slightest disfunction. Like me and Simmons used to be, side by side in the lab, finishing each other's thoughts.

I wonder when my mind stopped calling her Jemma. I had been calling her Simmons like an outsider, looking in on our relationship as if it were under a microscope.

 _What if he's right, Jemma? What if I'm worse when you're around?_

:::

* * *

:::

 **Epilogue**

:::

* * *

:::

 _a month later_

:::

I can't make myself heard, so I must make myself seen.

I shake my hand when I can't think of the right word to say, sometimes snap my fingers until it comes to me. I bite my tongue to avoid making things up in their place. I am angry - so angry - when I can't get it right, and I lash out at the ones I want to protect the most.

I speak as if I blame everyone around me for the way I am now.

But my mind only desires their forgiveness.

When the time comes, I never remember how to ask for it.

Today I am returning to work.

The space where I am shown to is not like the facilities I am used to. We've traded in our technology for necessity. Brick walls, enclosed spaces, no room to breathe.

I find my work space, I turn on the computer. I clear an area, and then re-stack the items I just knocked over. I look at the microscope -

"Fitz."

"Jemma!"

"You're looking well."

"Cheers." I didn't know how to say she looks even better.

"You remember what happened yesterday?" Jemma asks.

I shake my head furtively. I don't know why she still bothers asking me things like that.

"I left," she says. "I left you here all alone. I abandoned you. Remember?"

I shake my head, blink.

Click.

"What are you saying?" I ask, then I hold up a hand, immediately cutting off any hopeful reply. "No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. Let me do my work."

She saddens. "Well, all right," and she steps out of my way.

Now we are simpatico again, but unlike the way we were before. I try to process out loud, I can't find the word. I snap at her when she gets it wrong. I snap my fingers when _I_ get it wrong.

I talk to her, but not usually in front of the others.

They wouldn't understand because she's on mission.

Somewhere else.

 _Without me._

But before I leave her - like she left me - a moment. Something small. But a light, nevertheless, in a darkness that throbs like the bottom of the ocean. Alone in the black -

"Things are looking good in here," Skye says. Leaning on the doorframe, casually, arms crossed over her chest.

"Yeah, if you like dungeons," I reply harshly, looking away and trying to busy myself with paperwork. I shuffle it, and I reshuffle it, before sliding it into a folder. One report. My first since being back. Just the last finishing touches on an age old case - the Centipede project. A conclusion I had nearly forgotten.

It reads like a dyslexic Dr. Seuss.

"Fitz?" Skye approaches, losing the casual appeal. "It's only your first day back."

"So?"

"So give it some time."

"I've given th'es _plenty'ef time,"_ I exclaim. "It's a _waste of it,_ s'far as I can see."

"Well, I won't waste any of it," Skye begins.

"Then what ar' y' even doin' in here?" I cut her off, rudely.

 _I'm sorry. I am angry._

"I'm giving you your next assignment," Skye answers brusquely. "So don't hate me for it quite yet, all right?"

"What es et?" I ask suspiciously. Space toilets?

"The cloaking technology," Skye replies. "We need it. For the bus. And you're going to help us rebuild it."

She hands the folder to me, and I take it with some shock. This is a real assignment - from Coulson. As if he expects me to be just as I've always been. But what if I'm not...

I'd be angry with him if he gave me something beneath me. I'm angry because this assignment would actually mean something if I failed.

"It might - take me awhile," I choke out.

Skye puts her hand on my shoulder, and I touch her hand. "Just do the best you can," she says, and then she leaves. Abruptly.

She has better places to be.

But I imagine the pressure of her hand on my shoulder, still, except this time, the fingers belong to Jemma.

"You'll do very well, Fitz," she says.

I touch her hand, and turn away my head so she cannot see me smile.

I know she's there for me - in my head - now -

but -

I know I can look forward to the day that she will be here for real.

"Get out of my way, Jemma," I say, but without the same harshness as before. She catches the smile before it leaves my face.

And she smiles back, stepping aside. Maybe it's not so important that my mental state is completely deteriorated and I'm a mess - broken, even.

The important thing is that I work as hard as I can

till I can't

anymore.

So I do. I gather the material I need and try a small sample. I only have the power to coax a little reflection from one, four-square-inch panel. Even so it doesn't entirely cloak, but it's a start. Even when it fizzles and returns back to a dark, plastic square, and I grow angry again and hit the desk with my fist -

it's a start - more than before.

"I need further an... an... an..." I snap, and I point to Jemma.

"Analysis," she supplies.

"That's it," I answer. And I pick up the pieces again, broken. To be made whole again - with her.

I give it some more juice and plug in a small cord. The black plastic square glows, and turns white.

It's not cloaked, but it's more than nothing. White as snow.

I look at Jemma, and her image blinks and smiles back, and it makes me peaceful. And calm. The only person who ever calms me.

The same peace of mind that comes from the summit of a three hundred million year old volcano, cloaked in snow, brilliant under the sun.

"What is it?" Jemma asks, with confusion, seeing the expression across my face.

 _It's the first law of thermodynamics._

No matter what I do - she will never be created nor destroyed. I love her, and she me.

Simpatico.

:::

:::

 _the end_

:::

:::

* * *

 _ **Continued in season 2 of Marvel's AGENTS OF SHIELD**_

* * *

 **Author's Note**

* * *

Dearest readers,

I am so sorry this story ends so abruptly. Unfortunately I did all I could to give it something like an ending. As to why I couldn't finish in the way that I imagined, below is the story as to why. Stranger than fiction. The irony of it all is that Fitz's story became my story, just in different ways.

Somewhere between "Checkmate" and "Epilogue" I forgot everything from season two of Agents of Shield.

Why?

BRAIN DAMAGE?

Yes.

Told you the truth is stranger than fiction. I last updated this late fall of 2014. I had been dealing with some weird shit for a long time (health wise) and then that following year (2015) I was diagnosed with stage 4 ovarian cancer. Sounds dire! And it was, I don't mean to sugar coat it, but rather spare you a long-winded medical history.

But I LIVED!

Beginning year 4 of remission as of January 2019.

But here's how it relates to the story.

Chemotherapy treatments effed my brain up; big time. Not as horribly as Fitz; but it did give me some very relatable symptoms…

1- Extreme short term memory loss... (think like, Dory, only less cartoonish)

2- Difficulty finding the right words

3- Mixing my words up constantly

4- a crazy ass seizure experience… (at least being unconscious multiple times...)

During that seizure thing, I actually experienced the freaky self-awareness and imagery, just like I wrote about for Fitz. When I first started this story I had never really been unconscious before, only ever "felt sort of faint" due to various incidents. This blew that way out of the water. And when I experienced it for myself, I realized my imagination wasn't that far off.

So after multiple unconscious experiences (yes, more than once unfortunately) I had to re-read this story (because I had forgotten most of it). Reading the first chapter again felt very true to the real experience. Which is weird.

During chemo, I started forgetting words or had trouble naming what I needed at the time. I developed a verbal tic where I started saying "yadda yadda yadda" in place of the actual word I needed so if I happened to forget more than two words in a row I'd say YADDA YADDA YADDA like... TWELVE FREAKING TIMES in one sentence. It made me cranky as HELL. I was so angry at myself all the time for sounding like an idiot. Um... I really should have paid more attention to the lessons they tried to teach through Fitz's character development getting angry at Jemma when he stuttered. I started just clamping my mouth shut whenever I started to say it, and eventually I was able to unlearn the tic.

Remember that short term memory loss thing? There's that, and also, deafness is a big deal for me right now. I was slightly hard of hearing in one ear before because of a bad flu infection, but after chemotherapy treatments, I'm frickin' deaf. And I don't mean that metaphorically when someone doesn't listen very well and laughs, "OMG, I'm like, so deaf."

I mean actually deaf. It makes communicating frustrating. I need hearing aids, per the doctor. Haven't gotten them yet. I guess I am just not ready to jump on that wagon yet. I think it will be like finally admitting that my hearing is never going to improve. Ironically while I write this, my left ear (the worst one) is ringing so bad it sounds like a couple of crickets making love on a windchime. (sorry, a little Deadpool humor is sneaking in here…)

With the short term memory loss, I can forget things almost immediately. Sometimes as many as several times in a row. I lock my car, walk to work, turn around, check the car lock, forget it immediately, check again, walk back a third time... then my long term kicks in. I remember that I've done this five minutes ago, but maybe not five seconds ago. I realize that if I truly forgot to lock the car door then I would remember opening the door and hitting the button at least. Sometimes it's simpler things, like names and numbers. Someone will say it and I immediately forget it - but this is improving too! If I get introduced to five people in a row, I'll probably remember the first three names, not the last two. This makes working for a law firm really... stressful.

Lastly - and the most important one of all as it relates to this story - I CAN'T REMEMBER THE LAST FEW SEASONS AT ALL. Agents of Shield? More like Agents of BYE.

IT'S GONE - FFT! LIKE THE WIND! I BARELY REMEMBER ANYTHING AFTER s2. I know there's the inhumans stuff s3, and... something about Bobby and Hunter being the BEST CHARACTERS EVER... And like, Jemma goes to the blue planet?

Usually I would have photographic memory about a show. I could name my favorite episode and describe a season in great detail. Now I only brief images.

So it was really, really difficult to go back to a story I was writing from season 2 - especially PRE CANCER - and try and write something that felt canon. I barely remembered the actual canon. Especially from something PRE-CANCER! (I realized as I was typing this that it looked familiar, scrolled back, and I had already used that phrase, but the irony is of course that I forgot I used it, and then used it again. I guess that illustrates this issue better than anything else! Haha!)

Anyway, I tried to finish, as best I could. I have always had this ongoing inside joke with myself that whatever I write in my fan fiction always ends up sort of coming true in real life (sans secret agents and Narnia of course) but aspects of it always feel familiar and usually occur AFTER I write it. I've always joked like I REALLY need to be more careful about what I write, and write more comedy and less drama! This is probably the best example of that yet.

I tried to give you guys an ending - but as the great irony would have it -

I had trouble finding the words. XD But thanks for sticking around :)


	8. Tony Doesn't Care About the Defenders

**Tony Doesn't Care About the Defenders**

 **#drabble**

* * *

...

Pepper folds her morning paper, eyes perusing the article title on the last page. "Tony?" she asks. "Have you ever heard of Luke Cage?"

"Who?"

"The Hero of Harlem?"

"The Hero of Harlem?" Tony gives her a knotted eyebrow of incredulous disinterest. "Unless that's Cap moonlighting as a karaoke god specializing in patriotic anthems, I'm not interested."

...

* * *

 **...**

* * *

 **I know it's short haha, but it just came to me while watching The Defenders for the first time XD**


	9. Deadpool is Pissed

**Deadpool is Pissed**

 **#drabble**

* * *

 **Warning: ADULT LANGUAGE AND CONTENT**

* * *

...

Well, fuck the Oscars.

I guess the notoriety of being an R rated superhero family film has run its course, and it was too late to save ourselves. Even if we borrowed the same crowd-favorite butt-chin villain from the other franchise and incorporated all the diversity.

I don't mind being outshone by a singing raccoon and a… whatever the hell gaga is. At least they sounded pretty good. But it's fine. I'm just going to go back to Celine Dion's anthem for my four-hundredth listen.

"Out of the aaaaaashes," I sing mildly, lifting the bottom of my mask and sucking noisily through a crazy straw. The gin and juice-box combination doesn't just taste delicious, it stings the hell out of my mouth as if I used a potato peeler for flossing. But who flosses, really? We all know you lie to your dentist when they ask.

"What sorta gun is that?" asks my current company, which to any other passerby's, might just look like a pile of rocks with a face, two arms, and two legs. He's far too relaxed against the wall, legs resting on the balcony edge in front of us.

"A Walther P99?" I respond slowly. "Honestly whatever the hell it is. I point, I pull the trigger, it ka-booms, someone dies. So I don't honestly give a shit."

"Ah," he replies, "Reliable weaponry is highly sought after."

I flip the gun in my hand, spinning it before tucking it into my holster. "Look, Balboa…"

"It's Korg. Just Korg, mate. S'alright. It happens."

"Ko-org," I correct. "I appreciate you offering to take watch with me tonight, really, I do, it's comforting when the bad guys are inevitably attacking in the middle of the night for the second-act tragedy to have someone made out of - cement. I like you. I know for a fact audiences like you. The pull for you to have your own Disney series is astounding. But I also am in the mood for some - quiet time. Just a little me, a little gin, a little Celine Dion. You understand, yeah?" I fold my hands together. "I thank you for your service to this country. Now please leave."

"Oh, it's nice of ya, but I ain't leavin', I'm under strict orders - not so much strict as they were ineradicable orders - from the Mr. Stark to stay at your side and, I'm quoting 'im directly here, to watch you closely an' make sure you don't screw us over. I'm sorry if you find that 'urtful in any way. It truly ain't meant to be offensive. Just doin' my due diligence."

"Jesus. Okay. Christ. Is this how every one else feels when I wind up?" I finish my drink and tug the mask over my chin once more, whipping my head towards him. "Let me ask you something really important."

"Go on, then."

"Do you have a penis? I mean we've established the stones part - but - I mean you are sort of wearing this armored loin cloth thing, which leads me to believe you are hiding something, and I'm just going to need to understand the mechanics of how you procreate. Here's how I see this going. You put on a little smooth jazz, decorate with a little moss, pour a few glasses of fine cave pool water, and before you know it, it just looks like a landslide took out half the room…"

"Well your insinuations are certainly…" Korg looks down at the bench where we're sitting. "Oi, there's a mess here."

"Probably just some late night janitor fun," I wave him off.

"This is not a fine establishment, and I feel bad for the folks we're protecting here," Korg says. "Locked in a room all night, wondering if you'll make it out alive, while heroes like us sit outside the door to stand guard and discuss penises."

"Okay, well, when you put it like that…" I open up another juice box. "Want one? Can you drink? Or does it do like the river thing where all the liquid just goes around the rocks and makes a mess?"

"I could do with some nourishment," Korg's extra large hands grasp the tiny juice box, trying not to squeeze it too hard. He has difficulty finding the straw at first, but when he does, he slurps louder than a third grader with something to prove.

The door slides open behind us. "Can you keep it down?" Wanda glares from the dingy, dark interior of the motel room. "I am trying to sleep."

"Can't Vision play you a lullaby or something?"

"He's a synthezoid being, not an ipod," Wanda sighs.

"That's really too bad," I groan. "Alexa, play Despacito."

"Who's Alexa, and what is her instrument of choice?" asks Korg. "I myself enjoy the harmonica."

"Can Vision sleep?" I ask. "Or does he just lie there and watch you sleep all night?" I turn in my chair and give Wanda an eager, anticipatory look. "Hear me out - before the sleeping starts. I have a delicate question for you."

Wanda slides the door shut so fast that she nearly takes it out entirely.

"It's not sexual if it's mechanical," I call after her, but then she whips the curtains shut as well. "I guess we don't get anything more than some saucy invitations in Scotland hotels because anything more will give them a higher rating."

Korg presses a huge gray finger to his lips. "The witch and the robot need their sleep."

"He doesn't fucking sleep."

"It ain't for us to judge. Y'know, the last time I judged someone by their appearance, I kicked an empty wall, so, something to learn from this, I think."

"What was so bad about his appearance that it made you kick a wall?" I lifted up the edge of my mask. "Does this make you want to kick a wall?"

"Oh, hardly, as you're not a ghost. Not yet, anyway." Korg tapped his chin thoughtfully. "If I look like a pile of rocks, then you look like…"

"If you say mozzarella cheese, I will turn you to gravel."

"I was going to say the result of dastardly human experimentation, but I could be wrong."

I pause. "Well, fuck me. You're correct." I turn with a huff and put my legs back up on the balcony edge. "I'd explain more, but we'd have to do flashbacks, which require footage from the other studio. There's a little red tape on that still." I flip through some of the song options on my phone till we get to Celine.

Out of the asheeeeeessss…

"Is that the song from Titanic?" asks Peter Parker, hanging upside from a thread, slowly lowering to our balcony from the room above.

"Jesus, fuck, hell of a - kid," In the process of these expletives, I'd dropped my phone, scrambled to my feet, and dropped another juice box on the ground.

"Ah, the floating boy!" greets Korg happily. "How is the view?"

"Um…" Peter's hair looks a little too long, hanging off his scalp, and his feet are pressed firmly together on the string coming from the shooters in his wrists. "Same as it was last time you asked, I guess."

"Do these old fucks a favor and stop creeping down here like a Japanese horror film," I exclaim. "Say something next time, like, I'm coming down or I have dumb pop-culture questions."

"I don't have dumb questions!"

"How are the rest of the folks upstairs?" Korg asks.

"They're good, I guess. Sleeping. Bored. They're watching something on TV." He sighs. "I'm bored."

"Kids are the future," Korg exclaims.

"Bored, huh?" I say. "Well, then. Perfect timing to play my favorite game." I grin under the mask. "It's called pinata."

"Oh shit," Peter exclaims, just as I wind back and push both arms into him as hard as I can, swinging him off the balcony. He lets out a short shriek, swinging off to the left, and then over Korg and my head's to the right, back and forth like a pendulum.

"Not fair!" he exclaims, when the swings begin to slow.

"Want to go again?" I ask.

He reaches out with one hand and slams it against the wall just above the sliding patio door, stopping himself from another arch. "No, no thank you. I'll just go back upstairs. Thanks."

"Give Cap a smooch for me when you get up there."

"Ew, uh, no. No thanks. Give it to him yourself."

"Oh I will. It's not a matter of if, but when." I pause. "Wait, what are they watching on TV?"

"The Academy Awards, I think."

"Oh, fuck that," I exclaim, withdrawing both swords. "Do you think it's possible to get to the Dolby and do a little murder before morning?"

"Suns already rising, mate," Korg points at a low stream of gray just beyond the nearest cascade. "Or will be in just a moment. I thought it might be nice to watch it, y'know? Worked so long on a garbage planet, livin' in chains, it might be pleasant to experience it now even if we are running for our lives and protectin' Ms. Maximoff…"

"Look, I appreciate the whole WALL-E bit. Trust me. It's sweet," I respond. "But Daddy's getting anxious. In the mood for blood."

"Do you…" Peter tilts himself right side up, unsticks the palm of his hand and lands lightly on the balcony beside us. "Do you want a turn upstairs? It's still on, if you wanted to watch. I can sit with Korg for awhile."

"Fuck yeah I want to watch this shit," I hand both of my swords to Peter. He accepts them with a clumsy flinch, nearly dropping them both. "I hear we're nominated for best costume design, too. I knew the diversity would come in handy. And the juggernaut jumpsuit, man. It's one in a million."

"It's not…" Peter pauses. "Um. Yeah. Have fun."

"Will do, Crackerjack." I launch myself off the balcony, grabbing the edge of the one above, and groan way too loudly at the deadlift to crank one elbow up and over the edge, grasping the balustrade until the other arm can reach higher and grab the railing.

Just in time to hear the actual winner for best costume.

"Fuck the system," I exclaim.

"Sorry, mate, for whatever troubles you," Korg says, glancing up and holding another juice box to his slips, slurping loudly.

"It's fine," I call down. "We still have the X-Force and a clever retcon to make sure half of them didn't actually die, plus holiday rereleases with childhood favorites to earn money from the easily influenced and slightly damp middle-school crowd."

I finish crawling up and over the balcony, tapping on the glass window.

The patio door slides open, and Tony Stark stands with exhausted indifference.

"You again?" he asks.

"I want in."

"Go back downstairs where I posted you."

"Petey is taking my shift. I want the Academy."

"Well, the Academy doesn't want you, so…"

"Wow, touche." I fold my arms over my chest. "Let me ask you an important question. Are you familiar with Celine Dion?"

"Oh," Peter's voice pipes up again. "That's the exercise model, right? Like with those old rooftop music videos?"

"That was Cindy Crawford, dipshit," I call over my shoulder. "I ask because only my sanity is at stake for the…"

The door slides shut in my face.

"Jesus, fine." I hook a leg over the banister and nearly fall, catching myself last minute and huffing and groaning till I can let go and safely land between Peter and Korg, both noisily sipping from juice boxes now. The pack of twenty-four that I got is now sadly down by half.

I'm a thirsty guy.

"All right, assholes," I pick up another juice box, stab a hole in the top with my knife, twist the handle around so that the blade makes a round hole. Then I pour in another shot of gin. "To watching the sunrise sans background music with a couple of studio-crossing heroes."

"Cheers, mate," Korg says, tapping his juice box with mine.

"Oh, right. Cheers," Peter taps his.

The three of us slurp noisily together.

"All By Myself" by Eric Carmen starts playing.

"You've got to be FUCKING KIDDING ME," I shriek.

...

* * *

 **THE END**

* * *

...

* * *

 **QueenofCrystallopia helped me get out of a writer's block tonight with two things: sending me a video of Bradley Cooper (voice of Rocket, as you probably know, from Guardians of the Galaxy) and Lady Gaga singing at the Oscars for their movie A Star Is Born. The second thing was prompting me to just write something for Deadpool, and "word vomiting without a plan."**

 **Well, this is that unplanned drabble. I then asked her to provide me with another character, and in a panic, she suggested Korg XD So thank your beta Crystal prompting me with this wackiness. :) Happy Oscars night!**

 **If you enjoyed or chuckled, please leave a review!**


	10. The Regroup

**_Hello dear readers!_**

 ** _Yet again I had a CRAZY Marvel dream. I've had a few the last few weeks, it's like my brain is pissed at me for working so hard on my own fiction instead of writing my Marvel fanfic. So without further ado, here's a strange dream that I had from Black Widow's POV in some sort of AU where the Avengers have been driven underground by a villain so bad they were willing to leave one of their own behind to tend to the wounded. I woke up sometime just after Ant Man's appearance, (long enough to hear a certain-someone wasn't dead like we thought) so the very last paragraph was what I made up in order to bring the story to a cohesive (and happy!) ending. Hope you all enjoy! Please leave a review, and I'm sorry I've been absent for SO LONG. It's been a really insane few months. I lost my job and got super busy with other weird life things, but mostly my writing time has been spent on my NaNoWriMo project instead of fanfic. I REALLY miss my Marvelverse though so I am hoping to really get back into it come January._**

 ** _Thanks for sticking around, love to all!_**

 ** _Pip_**

* * *

 **...**

 **...**

 **The Regroup by Pippin Strange**

...

...

* * *

Natasha Romanoff's POV

* * *

In an old house in Philly, that was covered with vines, lived twelve little beds, in two straight lines…

I stare at the curvature of the stone bunker, too low for the claustrophobic. The cots in rows, IV lines bobbing on their iron rod headboards and medical staff darting from bedside to bedside. Some of the patients are friends. Many of them civilians, strangers. Some of them crying out and many under the influence of pain-relieving drugs.

Fortunately, the bunker was well stocked, prior to the battle that rocked the city from the highest building to the lowest cellar. What was left of the city, anyway.

"Brings back memories, doesn't it?" I ask.

Steve stands silently at my side, lost. Both in this world and the world war.

"Yeah," he replies. "It does."

From the low, mustard gas color of the cinderblock walls to the white coats from storage for the doctors and nurses - to the dust covered state of survivors still being pulled in and shown to one of the many rooms throughout the underground tunnels - a snapshot could have made it look like a makeshift hospital beneath London in the closed rail tunnels. The only difference being the modern technology hovering here and there - screens bearing holographic medical information above beds, and those wearing Stark technology.

"You alright?"

I turn towards him, a half smile at his concern. "I am if you are."

"That bad, huh?" he grants me an apologetic grin in equal measure.

"Hmph," I let out the breath of a closed-mouth laugh. "It's the job. We get through today. Then we get through tomorrow. No guarantees."

"That almost sounded optimistic, till the end," Steve puts a hand on my shoulder. I reach up quickly and tuck my palm over his.

"What can I say? I'm a realist. Always have been." We both drop our hands.

"Natasha, Steve," Bruce lumbers towards the half step in front of the circular iron door where we stand, observing. Waiting for the next initiative. There is an imperceptible shift in my body language - one I self-recognize as uncomfortable, confusion. Lonely.

He stays on the ground floor, so that he is eye-level.

"Bruce," I respond easily. My eyes trail down the bright splatter of blood against his white coat. "Is that…?"

"Not… not mine," Bruce says, his voice low with recognition, a large green hand gesturing absently to the stains as if to ward them away. "I just came to report he's… he's doing better. Still touch and go. But he's okay. For now."

I don't say anything.

"Thank you, Bruce," Steve responds for us both. "We're… we're lucky to have you. Here. Even under the circumstances."

As if on cue, a thunderous boom shakes high above our heads - somewhere outside, the residuals. Maybe another bomb. It's difficult to tell from a mile beneath the surface. A little bit of dust sprinkles down in a sandy hush, grains landing on the Hulk's broad shoulders and trickling down.

"I… I only assisted," Bruce admits, brushing the dust from his shoulder. "Dr. Cho did everything. Asked for my opinion when needed. But she probably saved his life. I'm… I'm a supervisor." He tries to smile. "You know when I finally - when I finally let the Hulk and I become - what we are - I didn't think thoroughly about the things I couldn't do."

"Or the people you couldn't touch?" I ask, before thinking it through.

Bruce's eyes light up with hurt, realization. We haven't spoken since...

"In surgery," I backpedal, gently. "In practice. With human hands."

It's a save, and he knows it. He knows I originally meant it exactly how it sounded - but it was coming from a place of hurt, without thought. He knows better than to dig deeper.

"Yeah," he recovers too. Steve shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Professor Hulk is another beast entirely. Maybe these hands are a little too big for the needlework… But… I can teach, I guess. I'm here if…" he looks at Steve. "I'm here to help."

"Thank you," Steve says hoarsely. "Thanks to both of you. I don't know what I'd do if…"

"I know," I say.

"Oh, and, uh, the kiddo is awake, too," Bruce adds, hastily changing the topic. "He's in and out, though. Pain meds are making him a little loopy."

"I want to see him," I say abruptly. "He took that hit for me. Got right in front of it."

Bruce steps aside and allows me to pass him. He takes up more space than he realizes now. It almost hurts my heart to walk this close to him. As if every hair on my body stands on end to acknowledge the yearning that used to exist between us, now, fizzling and dying with halfhearted sparks. Like a spent firecracker… once bright.

I give a quick eye to each bed that I pass. I forgot to ask which one he was in, but it doesn't take long. I step out of the alcove entrance from one tunnel to the other, leaving Steve's concerned line of sight as I make a left into the next cylindrical tunnel, also bearing rows and columns of beds. So many wounded.

Peter Parker is in the corner, lying spread eagle on the bed as if someone kicked him off a school bus, not a building. His bloodied suit is in tatters, some of it cut off and lying on the dusty floor. The vitals on the transparent screen above the bed look - not great, but stable.

He's grinning happily at the sight of me approaching the bed and holds up a hand. "Moooom," he says drowsily.

Mom… my mind echoes back. Never thought anyone would call me that, not in this life. What on earth does Bruce have him on?

His eyes look innocently wide and concerned at my lack of response, dilated wide and black with whatever he's on at the moment.

"Peter," I respond safely. I sit carefully at the edge of the bed and try not to flinch when he immediately tucks his hand into mine. Boyishly curling his fingers around and waving our hands back and forth a little, as if I was helping him as a toddler cross the street.

He smiles stupidly. "You came to see meeee."

"Of course," I smile back. Can't help it. Some are just too good for the world. I wish the superhero life had passed him by and left him well enough alone. "You helped me. You helped a lot of people."

"Pffffttt," Peter's eyes drift shut in the middle of blowing the raspberry and drops off again. I detach my hand from his and reach behind him, adjusting the small pillow to give his neck a little more support, and check the lines and vitals again. Still stable.

"Friday?" I ask the screen above the bed.

"How can I help?"

"Will you pull up a picture of Mary Parker, please?"

"Right away."

The picture takes over the vitals momentarily, a woman with dark red hair. The exact same shade as mine. No wonder he was confused. Our faces are completely different, my features are round and soft, hers are thin and strong. She looks like a scientist. A Shield Agent. Exactly the things we believed her to be, from what little intel we could gather on the death of her and her husband, Richard Parker. They were older when they had Peter, late thirties, early forties. When they died, Richard's younger brother Benjamin took him in with his wife May. When Ben was murdered, it was just May and Peter.

A family whittled down by violent deaths till there was only two left.

Efforts to find May Parker have been unsuccessful so far.

"He-ey, Mom," Peter says again, eyes sliding open in another attempt to remain conscious. I take his hand, preemptively. "Mom…" he repeats, confusedly, smacking his tongue to the roof of his mouth as if he tastes something strange. "Why am I saying mom?" he asks, his body language changes very subtly from loopy to lucid. "Am I calling for my mom?"

I squeeze his hand. "A little. And it's okay."

"Oh, I called… you… Mom," he realizes, turning bright pink. "In… in my… head… I was thinking, Spider-Mom. G-get it? Because I'm Spider-Man and you're… Black Widow… it made sense in my head, I swear…"

"I get it," I say. "Even with the pain meds."

No, I didn't. Somewhere in his drug addled mind he was making a joke about being superheroes with a spider-moniker. I immediately believed he was envisioning me as his mother because of the red hair. It's not his mistake. It's my wishful thinking - to be somebody's mom. Even by accident.

"Mhmmm…" Peter's eyes drift shut again, and he begins humming to himself. It's AC/DC. Something Tony would play.

"How's Mr. Stark?" Peter asks.

"I'm not sure," I say honestly.

I'm not sure what state his body is in.

I couldn't find him. I looked, and I looked… but we had to call it. Had to get down, get low… I don't have the heart or the will to explain any of this.

I tuck Peter's hand back into the blanket, draw it up to his shoulders, tuck him in and make sure he feels secure. I swipe my hand over the screen to send the picture away and return it to his vitals, still obsessively checking the numbers. They haven't changed - he's fine. Or he will be soon. With some recovery time, even less so with his healing factor.

"Sorry, I'm embarrassing," he whispers. "I'm an aaaaaass."

"You're not," I say. "You saved my life. You're an Avenger."

"I'm a… a… 'venger."

"You're the best of us," I reply quietly. I put on a face, with a tired smile and friendly, crinkled eyes, something easy to maintain, to get along with. We spies can put on emotions the way some put on masks. His is gone, and mine remains. For my fear of losing the kid when he took that hit for me, for losing Bruce and who he used to be, losing Tony somewhere above, losing Steve to the aftershock of losing the battle…

I put on the face, the tone, the body language. I'll be the strong one for as long as I can.

For now, a teasing smile, the look of an older mentor, razing the new guy.

"Spidey-son," I say gently.

He smiles in his delirium.

I walk away from the bedside, passing the rows, each cot like a shutter click, skipping frame by frame till I'm heading for the entrance of the bunker - the larger, underground hanger. It feels like an airport at night - no windows, just cave walls and metal. When the door lifts, it doesn't look out onto a runway, but a massive elevator lift big enough to taxi a small plane on to.

I barely noticed the crates of supplies pushed against the walls when I came through before, fleeing from a crusade we lost. I go to the nearest on now, where I had dropped one of my batons. I check the charge and slide it into my belt. Click.

I hear the tell-tale sound of someone checking a round to load behind me. I slide my gaze over my shoulder and look at Steve, standing twelve feet away, suiting up. He reloads another, cramming it into his belt with a look of steel.

I didn't have to ask. I never do. He's there.

Then comes the shield, magnetizing to the hold on his back.

I load another firestar and put it in my holster.

"Do you want to say it, or shall I?" I ask, sultry, just for the delight of seeing the look of confusion crossing his face.

"What?" he asks, tightening his gloves. "Good luck? For round thirteen?"

I turn on the small Stark earpiece and slide it in place, pop the joints in my neck and shoulders. The feed is tinny, crackles. Comes and goes for a moment before resolving - then the line is clear. A few surprised and familiar voices chime in, the airwave open again.

"The other one," I say.

Steve shakes his head a little, tapping his own earpiece. "It's all you."

"Avengers, assemble," I say, waiting for a sense of patriotism - the thrill - leadership, victory, hope - the things we represent, that we hope to build again.

Scott's voice. "Not to ruin the moment - thanks for the invite, and all - but… where, are we assembling, exactly?"

"East hanger," I respond.

"Not so easy, is it?" Steve asks.

I chuckle. "It has its moments."

"Be careful out there." Bruce.

"Who's talking?" Peter Parker. Oh, no. He's still wearing his.

The hanger doors begin to roll back, the cry of metal on metal and yellow hazard lights spinning in lazy circles at the caution-striped edges. Once the causeway to the elevator is exposed, we're overwhelmed by another signal cutting in.

"Jesus, Christ, team, been trying to reach you for hours."

My lungs flood with relief. He made it. He's okay.

"You guys have a nice nap? Ready to go for - what is it, round… ten?"

"Tony," Steve sighs. "Good to hear your voice."

"Mhm, because you probably thought I was a goner, didn't you?"

"Mr. Stark?"

"Anyone want to cut the kid off this frequency?"

"On it," Bruce promises.

"Waih… I can fight. I'm coming up. Don't leave without me. Oh, hi, Dr. Hulk. Er… Professor Bruce. Wait. That's not right. Yeah… Doctor Broke. Docco Bruke?"

A pause.

"Okay," Bruce says. "Tech reclaimed, kid dosed."

"Thank you."

I looked for you.

"Where were you?" I ask, my voice tighter than intended. "I looked for you. Before. I wouldn't have come down if I knew you were still up there... "

"I had my own getaway, Miss Romanoff. I didn't want to hold up the party, not when you had to leave so quickly… lots of wounded to transport. So I've been squatting up here for a few hours."

I cover the piece with one hand and look at Steve. "He stayed behind."

"I...I know," Steve replies uncomfortably.

"You could have made it down here," I say, moving my hand.

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda - my entire life has revolved around those three little words." I hear him cough and clear his throat. "The air is pretty bad up here. Bring glade."

"Even better," Steve says. "We're bringing the family."

I take a deep, meditative breath. "Let's get this son of a bitch."

Can't have the last word. Can't ever have the last word.

A crackle of feedback.

Tony whispers. "Language."

* * *

...

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading guys, I hope you enjoyed that as much as I enjoyed dreaming it! :D**


End file.
